Hopeless

I find myself
with the craving
to bleed, and
it's as if I were
twenty again,
holding rusted
scissors to my leg,
just to stop
the chaos in my swirling,
screaming brain.

God, why I am I here
again? Thirty-one
is supposed to be past this
fucking shit already.
They always talked about it like
it was a phase.

They don't know shit.
Stress is stress,
no matter the age, and
we all need to be heard.

I will sit here,
and I will write about my
sick head and tired body.
Maybe one day, you
will look past my facade
to hear the words I never say.