In the Air

I can feel it in the air,

When I smell the humidity,

It too fills my lungs, my breaths,

With it’s unwelcoming passion,

Or lack thereof.

I can hear the voices in my head,

They’re filling my mind with thoughts,

That are almost too true to combat.

Almost too real to relax,

Almost too real their impact,

On my day to day life.

I’m dragging my body around like a corpse,

Because, right now, in these moments, I feel dead.

And the voices,

Not the voices,

My voice is,

Telling me I can’t make it through the day,

And I won’t.

How can I attack the being that is myself,

Without attacking my Self.

How can I make her stop antagonizing,

The soul that is mine,

Without stopping myself from being divine,

In my own right.

I hear her when I am walking,

When I am talking,

When I am EXISTING,

I feel her in the air.

Like a cumbersome weight on my shoulders,

I’m almost too tired to bear,

Almost too tired to wear,

Almost too tired to fare.

Almost.

But,

Almost is never enough with her,

She finds me.

She sees me in the dead of the night,

And projects her fears onto me,

And they become my own.

The feelings of inadequacy,

The stress,

The hopelessness,

The unhappiness,

The self consciousness,

Too aware of myself,

To let my Self thrive, as she should.

I can feel her.

She’s in the air.

Waiting to call home,

Like the smell of a freshly baked pie,

Momma’s roses and her thorns,

I smell her in the air,

Waiting to say I’m hers

To claim me when I’m aching

Comfort me when I’m hurt.

And it might sound crazy,

But I know that’s not me.

It’s me but not me,

Not all I could be.

But she’s waiting in the air,

To clasp my hand,

Or stroke my hair.

Like the mother I never could find.

And I can feel the pit in my stomach,

From wanting to cry, when I can’t.

I hate myself,

And that’s what she needs,

The loathing that I breathe,

In the air.