It's All Real
My chest is heavy; every breath feels like a gasp. "How the fuck did I get like this," I shout. Curled on the floor, tears race down my cheeks, the apartment is trashed, the furniture long-gone, the air—freezing. Seething with self-hate, I question if I'm actually even cold—if I even feel anything anymore. The drugs, the shame, the self-pity have eaten at my soul; I've lost everything; I have nothing left, I am nothing, an empty shell, a broken man. I hate myself, and I know I always will: what I am, what I've become, what I once was, and what I'll never be. I'm finished, a failure, completely forgotten, no friends, no family, too lost to ever be found. Boom! Boom! Boom! Pounds the door.
