Not okay not okay not okay.

Stop saying it’s okay.

I’m an idiot, I’m a moron,

I screwed up and I’m letting you down and I’m so so sorry and it’s not okay and

I’m

Not

Okay.

And I hate that saying those words make me feel a bit more okay because I’m not I’m not I’m not.

I’m dying I’m drowning can’t you see?

I’m shattering but I would rather die than do the only thing I can think to keep myself together.

That’s not saying much though, there are a lot of things I’d die for.

Maybe just to stop living, or whatever I call this.

But I’ll blast music.

I’ll lay on the floor and crush my ribs with my arms, trying to hold onto something, anything, that doesn’t slip though my fingers.

I’ll dig my nails into my palm to wrap up in a little bit of pain, the pain that doesn’t demand blood.

I’ll scream as I feel a single tear drag down my neck,

I’ll picture scratching my skin off until I look as awful on the outside as I am on the inside.

I’ll breathe until it stops feeling like a curse.

I’m okay.

I’m okay I’m okay I’m okay.

I am I am I am.

Why wouldn’t I be?