THC Meets Poetry

Emotional Purgatory

I'm expected to love as though I don't battle chest pain. As though there isn't years worth of trauma resting in the back of my brain. No empathy for this ongoing migraine. Showers of affection burn my skin like acid rain. I'm Isolating myself in this room to travel on endless thought trains.

I feel like I'm full of mental diseases. In the face of love my heart just freezes. I'm scared and I don't need this. Don't overstay your welcome in my memory because I don't plan to reminisce.

I'm dissociating to cope. What else can you do when you've started to completely lose hope? Emotionally it feels as though somebody is strangling me with an old and thick rope.

I'm stuck in emotional purgatory. Is this really the end of my love story? Is there a way to fix this? Let me try to reconstruct my heart in my personal laboratory.

With these dark rings around my eyes, I cannot disguise the terrible memories that linger inside. I ran towards the tall and thick walls of amnesia, and thought it to be a safe structure to hide behind, but I knew that it was only a matter of time before my eyes could no longer pretend to be blind.

I thought a blissful ignorance was mine, but I was just refusing to acknowledge the obvious warning signs. Mental illness wants to keep me on a steady decline as though I were meant to be miserable by design.

I am basking in this recovery but I struggle with sobriety. Is it wrong to love the high and the way it silences the voices and crippling anxiety? Is is wrong to crave how amazing it feels to not have to be an active member of society? I like how substances carry variety, and how they have always cared for me. They've never abandoned me. Perhaps this is why my doctor had recommended  medication and therapy.