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.



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