It’s been a while everyour who followed my poetry on here. Most of my poetry, I write daily with photos of my own on Instagram @beautywithpoetry.
But I come back here again, for those darkest times, the times I thought I escaped from, even through other depths, I thought I came out better. Was recently mugged. Befriended one of the muggers, he bought me breakfast, gave me his watch, asked for forgiveness. I forgave him, he didn’t kick my head in further, he stuck around after I think, I think? As a lot of it is a blur. His friend punched me to the ground after they got me into a headlock.
It’s getting worse. The experience. Dunno. Everything, my art, lots, getting better until that. My path, directions, hopes. I knew. And then this.
Wasn’t even the experience, I’m over it, it was losing the watch, and it’s not even losing the watch although I’m broke and can’t afford this, let alone living being difficult. It’s what it represents in this situation, me, kindness, emptiness, loss, direction, knowing. Lots else.
I feel sad, lost, empty, giving up, having tried. No energy. Just been laying in bed in the dark for the last 4 days. Apart from work this morning which I was on a verge of a breakdown throughout all of it. I know it’s getting bad again, much much worse, because I’m getting better at hiding the pain, the panic, everything, which means people will never know, which means it’s getting darker.
Even now. Been in bed for like 8 hours in the dark after work. Couldn’t even bother to get up for a cig. Will do now before “bed”.
I’m, tired. I haven’t eaten and don’t want to. Want to starve myself. I’m surprised, it doesn’t feel hard to do, hasn’t felt this easy since the last time I starved myself for a week, back 5 years ago. I’m tired.
It’s my penance, a word I forgot, I used to use a lot as a kid. It’s my penance. My hatred towards myself. I’ll starve myself. This makes me feel a little happier, like I have some control. I can do something. I can do something myself, something to help my finances, something to punish myself, something to hurt, something to feel. Feel happy even, thinking how long can I go without food. I remember the dark feeling. How things so far, seem so familiar, even just the feeling.
I can’t even be bothered to get up and drink water. But I’ll try, while I go for a cig. I’ll try. Wanted to do art, or write, or photograph and only kinda did one, didn’t really do any.
Oh well. This is life. This is living. I’m done.
All I can do is hope.
When I have lost all hope.