To feel better.
I’d go and try to make that happen, but I’m too scared. Of being patronised, ridiculed, dismissed. All of which it would probably only be right to have done to me; I’m pretty sure this whole thing’s nothing. I hope this whole thing’s nothing.
(Who knew nothing could feel so… Who knew nothing could feel, so?)
Get more sleep, they’ll say.
Make my mind stop, I’ll say.
Make whatever is running through my veins, lingering, aching everywhere between head and heart; that frantic sick feeling charging me with more energy than I can bear but at the same time somehow leaving me with barely enough to do the things I have to (need to, want to) do,
just go away. Go, and stay away.
Except I won’t say that. Because that’s all kinds of f***ing ridiculous, isn’t it.
It’s called life, Sweetheart. Get over it.
(Sorry. I’ll regret this).