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
I was up late
You know how it is

Netflix calls
I’m watching one episode and then
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
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
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

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