wind

you’re scared you’ve given up,
on your haunches
balled up fists pressing into eyes
and you’re freaking out
and you’re talking to the wind again
and you’re trying to romanticise
scoping out buildings to throw yourself from,
you’re turning it into a joke
when you throw up from anxiety,
and you’re comparing yourself to everyone else,
who doesn’t have a sheen of sweat
who doesn’t wake up at 4am
who doesn’t feel alienated 
who doesn’t suffer real emotional trash
who could feel a sense of community
without an armful of pills,
and there are a thousand open hands that want to catch you
but your insides are burning, and your minds racing,
and you can’t let them touch you,
and you’re dodging helping hands like they’re blows,
because you don’t want to pass on
the same vile thoughts that affect your blood stream,
we’re not saviours
we’re not angels
we were born to walk around on two legs,
we were born to be confused
to never understand,
and inflict whatever life throws at us onto others
we’re sick 
and we’re martyrs for ourselves
we’re what we need to be
we’re caricatures of what we see
so easily broken
so easily nothing,
and it’s midnight and you’re working up the courage
and you fall back to the floor exhausted
waiting for a forced ending
and you’re talking to the wind again
and you were right 
when you said i don’t deserve to be happy
and you were right when you said i don’t deserve to live
and you were right when you said he’s a better man
and you were right about everything
lying in bed, you’re turned inwards, i’m externalising
talking to the wind again
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Author: angus macnaghten

cynical and cyclical, hit me up, ajmacnaghten@hotmail.co.uk

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