My Friend,

Pray for me, again. 

Please, when I’m walking I can see your shadow, 

And when I sleep, I can feel you creeping up my mind, 

Lingering, athlete’s foot, just parasitic 

In the morning, night, mid-day,

Unlike teachers, you are there, 

Unlike social pressures, you unravel me,

On thin ice,

I’m sliding towards something, an iceberg, college, but my friend, 

You crack the ice. 

You are a stone-cold killer, 

And when I give into your warm exterior, 

Something human inside is screeching to a halt,

“Thirty-six pills”

“Half the bottle” 

..Why? 

It was as easy as frying an egg in the morning,

The fan whirring away, 

Canceling all the morning chirping birds,

Human-made, mechanic, fake, but I’ll believe it.

The morning earthy ambiance is replaced with an artificial white room.

Looks like an asylum, but this is my happy place

Why? 

“Thirty-six pills”

I’m rolled into the psychiatric ward, and although nobody died,

I was rolled. 

And when I was discharged, 

I walked out with my own two legs,

I don’t know why,

Perhaps I was done with my buzzing mind, 

Eczema is a skin condition, 

It keeps me half awake at night,

And scratching the itch does not feel painful for three seconds,

It is relief, until my stubby nails are filled with skin tissue,

It is addicting. 

My mom used to wake up to the Critch scratching of my hands,

I didn’t know it was so haunting,

I woke up with a burning pain, 

And I wanted to tear my skin off but my eyes were first.