Final Entry

"This is the last page of this journal.

A record of strife that I never wish to read through again.

Unfortunately, I will need to buy a new one.

The problems never end, it seems."

I haven't had a catatonic episode since last Wednesday

but my chest constantly feels like it's about to burst,

my mind is so loud it's hard to keep things straight,

spinning like a motor in the red,

my fingers bounce across the desk

wishing it were a piano

as my foot taps the floor at an impossible tempo.

I only wish to distract myself, with music

or perhaps a game, or call a friend,

but there's no time to stop and smell the roses

because if I stop I'm dead.

This anguish is impossible to ignore

like turning your back on a housefire.

What would happen if I let it burn?

The thing is,

I don't know if I can go through trauma like that again.

My body falls limp to prevent a panic attack

and the last one felt like it was frying my brain.

I wanted to scream louder than I have in my life,

to tear my skull out of my head

as if it were the very thing killing me.

It's a scar, an image burned into my mental retinas

and one I only wish I could forget

but the smell of smoke still lingers.

I can't help but think that I'm broken;

My wires are crossed

sending mismatching signals

back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth

until I think I'm in danger every time my Dad says he's proud of me,

until I feel like she's lying when my Mom says she loves me,

until I assume I'm a burden to whoever I'm around,

until I forget what it's like to love myself

and doing so becomes a chore

dirty and laborious,

like replacing the firewood

and sweeping up the ash.

"Last page. What now? I think I'll leave a bit of room just in case."