Control.

I need control.

When I feel I’m trapped I can’t breathe,

I can’t think,

I can’t function.

The solution is control.

Control, control, control.

_“I’m in control.”_

__

_Right?_

I can’t control the weather-

If it’s too hot to run outside.

I can’t control how often I get to see you-

If my mom thinks it’s “too much.”

I can’t control my mind-

If I’m sane or broken or okay.

I can’t even control my own fucking sleep-

If I escape my mind before 2:45 am.

If I had a therapist,

They would probably tell me to think of what I can control.

That sounds reasonable, right?

I wouldn’t know.

I’m going insane in my own head,

Dying in the prison that is my mind.

I’m drowning and I don’t know who could pull me out from the water.

But it’s okay.

I have me.

And I think she might want me dead,

But it’s fine.

_Right?_

So here’s what I can control:

I can control if I smile or not-

If I let my dead eyes take over my face.

I can control if I make an effort-

If I try or let myself fall to pieces in this chair.

I can control if I shut them all out-

If I blast music and stop interacting.

I can even control if I grab those scissors-

If I go for the _real_ control.

But I don’t want that choice of control.

Anything but that option.

Because for every bit I gain,

I lose more.

I know that.

I know it’s wrong.

_…right?_