Anxiety.
I'm okay... until I wasn't.
I'm okay, with every teetering chill that comes in the form of sweaty palms and nausea.
From staring at the crowd of people, of strangers I don't let too close yet are so close—they scare me.
No one could, no one would, no one should see whatever is underneath this fake, unfaltering smile I put up, for these strangers who aren't really strangers but no one is your friend. No one can be your friend—no one should.
For if you let them too close, too near, you'll only break until they're too far.
I'm okay, until I wasn't.
I was okay last night, drinking my sixth cup of coffee, until the bitter taste turned salty—I burned my tongue, but that's okay. I blamed everything on my tears.
Why was I crying? I'm suddenly reminded of things that could happen, would happen and should've happened, but didn't. Wondering if I'm doing something wrong but has no idea what it is that has to be right. Why was I so scared of dying when I'm already scared of living? What is it with this overwhelming pressure in my chest that forbids me to breathe when I can feel the air pass through my lungs—what if my parents die?
Of cardiac arrest, of natural causes, of accidents—how should I bear it? The weight of other peoples lives when I can't even lift mine.
I'm okay though. I blamed everything on my coffee until I burned my tongue on my seventh cup.
I'm okay, until I wasn't.
I'm okay, when my friends invited me over but has to cancel the last minute because some emergency happened. It's okay, it's my fault anyway, whatever happened probably was my fault so they had to step back because I was being overbearing, maybe I should know my boundaries, I shouldn't burden them too much. Maybe I should wallow in despair even when they had explained it was a family problem and it wasn't even because of me—but still, I think it was my fault.
I'm okay, when suddenly I can't bear going to school, of facing my teachers and my classmates—oh no, I've been in the bathroom for too long, when will this constipation stop.
It was in the form of vomiting that I figured I'm sick of my life, of people, of pressure and of my mind.
It was in the way my stomach churns when I think of beautiful Alice talking to me kindly but stabbing me behind my back.
It was in the way I can't feel my legs, my face and my arms when I walk beside Matthew and people stare at me, maybe cringing, maybe flinching in disgust, maybe burning a hole through my chest because someone had to assassinate the impertinent brat walking side by side with a human being I don't deserve.
I'm okay... even when I think of what I had to leave behind for always thinking other people deserves better than a worthless piece of trash as myself—they called me pretty. I scowl at the lie. What was it they try to achieve with every compliment they spew at my direction when I'm just nothing. What is it they see underneath a damaged doll, afraid of all things not deadly and yet they call me pretty.
I'm scared, of being called pretty.
For being pretty can become too many things at once. Maybe it was in the way Justin had held my hand, his face too close, my blood rushing to my cheeks, I want to vomit, he's too close—I know it was me, but it seems like I was watching another person's life when his lips touched mine and I had to pull back because I was scared. No, I'm not pretty. And I know how this ends. So please, before I end up retracting to a ball of shame, for all the things I thought that hasn't happened yet—don't get too close. Because, no, I'm not pretty and I've seen you leave with Jill in my imagination.
Don't call me pretty, because I know, there's going to be someone else prettier and you'll end up choosing them over me—I'm sorry, this isn't what I wanted but I'm so afraid of nothing and everything at the same time. You're confused, I am too. Believe me. You try to understand this mess of a character but I'm afraid I couldn't understand it myself either.
But I'm okay. Even when you didn't do the things that frightened me, at least, you didn't do more damage—but wasn't it really?
Today, I burned my tongue again as I watch the birds fly off my windowsill. I wish I could fly, but what if I get hurt because I flew too far?
I'm scared of pain—but am I not hurting yet? I overthink too much and feel too little. Should I press this knife over my wrist? Would it hurt as much as it did inside? Would pain bring me comfort?
But I'm scared of dying.
But what if my fear of living, outweighs my fear of dying?
Yeah... I'm okay.
I'm okay... until I wasn't.
