Fifteen

I’m 15 and I dread waking up every morning because life is suffocating and the only time I can breathe is when I’m asleep. Unfortunately, 15 is too old to crawl in bed with your parents and even if it wasn’t, apparently  ”reality” is not an acceptable form of a nightmare.

I’m 15 and I’m trying to keep my head above the water, but it seems I have graduated from the kiddie pool and I’m drowning in all the thoughts swimming around my brain, overflowing onto these pages.

I’m 15 and I have no room for your temporary happiness because my heart and my lungs and my head are occupied by the sad. Perhaps being happy works for you, but sad is so much easier and I like the miserable company.

I’m 15 and I’m forcing myself to swallow food around the permanent lump in my throat, wondering how it is humanly possible to feel so full and so empty at the same time.

I’m 15 and I think my vocal cords have started to rust because I haven’t felt the need to speak in a long time, knowing all too well that no word in the English language will change things back to the way they were.

I’m 15 and my heart is in a permanent state of shock, pounding like it wants to take flight, but it does not plan on taking me with it. Instead, it will search for a life more bearable than this one.

I’m 15 and I’m trying so hard to stop the tears that are constantly threatening to spill from my eyes, but everything is blurry lately, and it’s hard to keep going when I can’t see straight.

I’m 15 and I’m not entirely sure how 15 is supposed to feel, but I am certain it is not like this.

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