The wad of emotions clogs my throat, desperate for release.
It feels as though the firm little hands of tears could—
Oh fuck it. Just because I’ve been reading poetry doesn’t mean I can write it at the moment. I don’t want to be here. I keep screwing up. I feel so sick and so lonely and so freaked out and so lost and I just don’t want to be here. I want to go home.
Home, of course, being translated to “where Cassidy and Sam are.”
I need them right now, but they’re not here, and I’m not there, and I don’t have a car.
If I had a way to get to them, I would. If one of them showed up right now, I’d get in the car, no question.
I’m shaking. I might be cold. I might not.
I can’t do this. Not because I actually can’t, but because I don’t want to, and that debilitates me.
I have to get it together. I have a paper to write, a presentation to prepare.
Yeah, that’s true. Those are truuuue statements. But I’m not going to.
No one can help me either, which is the tragic part. I’d like to be helped, sure, but I’m too stubborn and too depressed to be helped. I couldn’t make eye contact right now if you demanded it. Talking with my voice? I’d like to see someone try.
None of this is okay. *sigh* So far from it. Like, wow.
It’s cool though. I really am a drama queen. I’ll be fine.
Well, I’ll appear to be. But I think unless this gets fixed…I won’t ever actually be fine.
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