It’s an awkward situation to be in, sitting bareassed naked on the landing in the middle of the night
with my face in my hands.
I crept downstairs in silence, exhausted to the point of lunacy now four days into brutal week
of mostly sleepless nights.
And was morose but fine until I saw that fucking lit up tree covered in decorations and came apart.
The struggle to smile is a battle. My teeth feel stained and bloodied, my lips bruised from the verbal skirmishes.
These days. These days. Today, the struggle not to give in and to stay is a tougher one.
The guilt over even considering death as a viable solution to insomnia is almost as torturous as the desire.
It’s a battle I fight every day, but
I’m still here. I may be weak, in tears, torn as old butterfly wings, but I am here.