chronic

its seductive whispers sends me spiraling down to a depth i didn't remember after i clawed out. its slimy, inky stains imprint on my hands, tainting all i touch, and they laugh bitterly because they are reminders of how i am not important - not worthy - nothing - and that i am empty. and it will win, days and days and weeks - a month? - six months, a year? - at a time but i will fight for that individual smile and laugh. or at least i will tell myself that as reason to get out of bed. it will overshadow and eclipse my sun. and i will stumble and crawl, trying to find a light in the metal tunnel it keeps me inside. and if i scream, it will echo. and if it echos i just might be heard.