The Name of What It Really Is

Due to the nature of this poem, the author asked for it to be published anonymously

The nights I do not want to remember
Are the nights I do not want to talk about

To everyone else
I say
Oh
I was up late
You know how it is

Netflix calls
I’m watching one episode and then
Oops
I’m on to the second series
And before I know it I’m lying
To the people I love
And I feel safe doing this
Because then I don’t have to admit to myself
That last night I was so erratic
I could not move from the living room

I was in darkness
Biting the skin off my thumb
So tired
But unable to move
So exhausted
But unable to stop thinking
About every little thing I had thought about that day
Giving it more attention than it needed
Letting thoughts fill my brain
Override it
Until every single thought was so important
So awful

I had convinced myself I was going to die from them
And that something really bad would happen if I didn’t work out the answer now
If those people really thought those things
Where would that leave me
If I don’t tell anyone
I can carry on living this lie
I quite like it
Really
When people ask
Why were you up so late?
It starts with
I was stressed last night
And it ends with nothing
To deal with the real destruction that was going on in my mind
Seems too much
So
This way
it remains non-existent
because I don’t let it exist in the name of what it really is

Photo courtesy of Quin Stevenson

Categories: Monologues, Poetry, Short Stories

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