To All The People

To all the people who taunt me with biting marks and cutting glares:
I do not desire this life.
I wish I could say that my suicide notes were thrown out years ago, but
all thirty-six of them are still at the bottom of my trash can,
waiting to be taken out and reused.
Truth is,
it only took a couple weeks of insults, names, and abuse before
Depression took the key away
and Anxiety swallowed it down.
Words are eating away my sanity.
I am not a miracle.
I am a disappointment.

To all the people who whisper meaningless lies in my ear at night:
I am not a failure.
I am something of a miracle, with anger coursing through my veins every minute,
my teeth jagged with hatred and bitterness,
my hands coarse with old age, anxiety, and loneliness.
Reality is something of a dream –
A dream that just so happened to turn itself into a series of living nightmares
full of words that deflate my ball of self-esteem
and make me lock myself inside my own mind.
I am Frankenstein’s creation,
with claws for hands and beads for eyes,
each breath rattling my lungs and body.
I am alive.

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