There are times when I’m so sad.
When I’m so sad, anxiety feels like a normal emotion.
When I’m so sad, crying isn’t a consoling emotion anymore.
Because I’m fucking sad.
I’m sad I’m doing this to myself.
I’ve failed at making myself happy.
So I lay down and stare at blue and green pillows and brown headboards.
To wake up from a reality that never ends.
I can’t be happy. I’m too soft.
I’m too soft for a world that demands rocks.
I’m too open for people that shut doors in your face.
I’m too giving, for hands that snatch without thought.
I’m really really tired.
Of trying, of waiting.
I’ve made myself believe that it’s okay to give up.