My soul is too lonely to live. All joy is gone. I’m becoming a cliche. I don’t want to be a statistic. I’m so much more than that. I’m so much more than a shell of a woman. I’m so much more than this. Life is so much more than this. Life is much more than this. I’m not hungry for life. What good would it do to go to the hospital again? Nothing, there is no reason. I just need to take control of my life again. Easier said than done. How does this work, how is this all supposed to work. Question mark. Love. Love plays a part. Self-love, they say. Okay. Discipline. Structure. Eating good food. Exercise. It all plays a part. I could write forever. I could die tomorrow. It could all end so soon.
“Maybe next time, will be the right time/ Maybe next time, will be your time.”
Death, the dying day. Lady Lazarus escapes the grave. Come to me, dead sleeper, come to me, open wound, I am night, raw and raucous night, death a kind blanket to sleep in. Sleep. I am tired of living. I have no ambition to arise in the morning. To get to class on time. To do anything. I need to do yoga. I need to start running. I need a miracle. I need to pray until my mouth bleeds. I need I need I need.