It still surprises me that after all this time
Living with myself is hard.
The ticks and bad habits I thought I had broken
Somehow find their way to the surface
Spinning me out of control in my attempts at consoling myself
Like a drug addict refusing rehab,
I continue wading through the traumas of my past alone,
Muddy waters seeping in to soak my shoes
Until everything is dark and stained.
Most days I feel more victim than survivor
Lying to them and myself when they ask how I’m doing
Because I’m stuck in the same place I used to be,
Even though I’m trying my best not to be
But how do you explain to a healthy person
What choking on your illness every time you breathe feels like?
How can I tell you that sometimes I choose to be sick,
Falling back on old familiar ways for comfort
Even as they kill me.
the Honest Poet 