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trying to put my thoughts into words is difficult.
i never make sense and speak in tongues to people who do not understand what i could possibly mean by i’m getting too tired to breathe.
so i just stare at the same spot where the paint is chipping off my dresser and imagine it as a metaphor of my own sanity being chipped away with every long exhale i release from my jaded lungs.
sometimes i let out a sigh that seems almost never ending.
my chest sinks so low that my bones could almost crush my heart that seems to be beating at a slower pace than yesterday.
and the day before.
and the day before that.
there have been houses built upon my shoulders.
beautiful, victorian houses where all my thoughts reside.
interiors decorated with emotional abuse and self doubt.
self loathing and self deprecating.
crooked picture frames hold memories of every person i have ever known, loved, and hated.
a whole family of struggles that refuse to come out from the basement even after throwing every piece of old, worn out furniture onto the street. they will not leave.
even after setting fire through every corner of the house they continue to rebuild, reconstruct, and redecorate.
they will not leave.
so i have strived to make amends with these families and moved mountains to negotiate civil living upon one another and yet
they relentlessly keep me up at night.
banging on the walls and screaming screams so deafening that my ears feel like they could melt from my head.
it’s unfortunate that i can’t call the police on my thoughts for being too loud.