I am not who you think I am.

I am not who I think I am.
But I am.
I am.
I am.
I’m giving up. I’ve been giving up. This has been a steady process, a slow release, a quiet slipping away.
And I’d ask for help but I’ve lost my voice. Haven’t you notice? I can’t write anymore. I can’t speak anymore, either. I’ve lost focus while I’ve been losing touch.
And I just keep wishing – I keep hoping – I keep praying –
That things will turn around.
And I’m not asking for someone to swoop in here and save me. I learned that lesson long ago. I’ve only ever had myself. And only myself to blame.
But I’m so tired.
How long can a lost soul stay in purgatory?
I keep making the same mistake. Mistake after mistake. I have become the Ouroboros personified.
I swallow shot after shot of whiskey, striking match after match waiting for the ignition.
Because the darker it becomes, the harder it is to see the glean of a path. And this darkness breeds my insecurities. Here, in this space, they multiply daily and their weight is crushing.
They keep me here.
