You sing along to your old favourite song in the middle of the store. You see people staring at you, even if they aren't. You feel like it, because anxiety tells you that. And depression takes you back to your bed and the bed room is the epitome of void in your hollow chest that you tried to hide since the day you knew that the other side of your bed will always be empty.
But then I fight back, clawing my way out of my bed, trying to snatch myself away from the monsters under my bed, inside my head, sleeping on the side of my bed
and, boy, do they love me right.
There's an abandoned plot inside my heart, like an empty farmhouse no one dares to buy because it's haunted and the ghosts have driven out every person I ever loved. But you didn't see them. So you blamed all of it on me. And I don't blame you. I blame myself for letting that ghosts in.
It's always a never ending battle. A war with no deaths but mine. But I'd rather fight than die of cowardice. I want to get out and fight. But my anxiety holds me as a hostage inside my bedroom with depression pointing the gun at my head.
My trembling fingers are laid upon the trigger. Depression wants me to die. Anxiety reminds me I'm afraid of death.
It's a constant battle I have to witness each day, everyday. To have both of them together, is to like having narcolepsy and anaemia at the same time. You fall asleep without any warning, but you can't even sleep for more than a minute.
I want the monsters under my bed,
Dead. I want the demons inside me, Exorcised. I want the empty plot inside my heart, sold. I want to take control of the gun pointing at me, but when you left you took away the sunshine. The sunshine that kept the sunflowers in my heart alive. The sunflowers that had eyes only for you.
For you, my sun.
Maybe I will never find another sun. Maybe my sunflowers will always be withered. But maybe one day I will spontaneously combust, create a fucking sun and the garden of sunflowers will be alive, again.
ankita || @the.nihilistic.writer
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