It’s bad poem

It’s bad.
Not
“I’m having a hard day.”
Not
“I’m a little overwhelmed.

I mean
my fucking body
doesn’t know
that I’m here.

My mind keeps dragging me
back to somewhere
I am begging to escape.

I can’t breath
I can’t think.
I can’t make the memories
shut the fuc up.

The panic comes in waves
and I am drownng
on dry land.

And somewhere inside
all this noise
is the despera thought
that maybe physical pain
would be easier
than the pain I can’t touch.

Because I want relief.
I want five fucking minutes
where my body belongs to me.

Five minutes
where I don’t remember

Where I don’t smell him.
Don’t feel him.
Don’t hear myself screaming
into a memory
that never answered.

I want to breathe
without fighting for it.

I want to stop being trpped
inside a oment
that already happened.

I want my brain
to understand:

IT IS OVER.

But my body doesn’t believe me.

So when I say
“I’m not okay,

please understand
I am not asking you
to fix me.i know i cany be

I am trying to tell you
that I am fighting like hell
to stay here
while every part of me
is screaming
for the pain to stop.

It’s bad.

That is what
“It’s bad” means.