Fragments

how can there be so much panic in one person? how can i be scared of nothing but myself apparently?
what does my mind see, that my eyes can't? there must be something big and dangerous right in front of me, i can feel it, but it's not there, how can my body react to nothing,
i just don't understand...

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why is it, that the earth floats through space and travels around the sun but my heart is chained to the dusty lampshade beside my bed? wherefore rises the sun each and every day again no matter what happened and my mind is lost in complete darkness? and how does it come, that i can save no one, not even myself?

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i'm so tired i can't dream, i'm so hungry i can't eat, i'm so full of love, i can only hate.
it seems like i can't live, but i'm too afraid to die either.
this one wants me to lay down and never get up again, the other one wants me to run away as fast as my exhausted body parts can take me, just leave this place, these people, don't stay, never stop,
no wait, lay down, i'm gonna faint, i need to rest, i'm hungry, no i have to puke, i'm too full of nothing, give me more, give me less, leave me alone,come back, take everything away, i need more, i want everything, i want nothing, ever.

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i don't know what my fucking problem is. it feels different now. it always does. it always feels different than the time before but still familiar. like the funny feeling in your tummy is strange but you suddenly remember how sickness tastes. my body learns, and so does my mind, as soon as i accept a certain pain, i discover another way of hurting. i'm able to trick myself in a twisted, unhealthy way, when i'm struggeling to deal with that wound, as soon as i feel in control again, i find a new part to cut open.
i'm not really feeling sick right now, but my stomach hurts like the thought of him did yesterday, even though i took the pills, and i'm hot and sweaty and maybe i can just faint and everything will be black and calm.

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i'm so scared.i don't know what to do has become my first name
and helplessness my mothertounge.
i write it down to get it out of me, scrape it from the walls of my head, so i may feel alive again, like it's all just dead flowers and smeared make-up, art, melancholy, nothing more, nothing serious, totally in control.

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crying won't help, salt burns in open wounds.
some call it a desperate diary entry, some call it breathless bravery, some call it insightfull information,some call it pointless poetry, i call it a way of not losing my mind.