"Poor Me"

It’s like I am choking on sand.
It’s as if there is this man
-A hybrid of all my fears and insecurities-
Standing over me with a pitcher of sand and pouring it down my throat.
And I see him do this.

I watch him,
I open my mouth
I let him.
But all the while I am screaming. "Save me!"

Then I feel weak.
My hands are not bound,
My feet are free
But I won't do a thing to help my self.

So I open my mouth a little wider and think
" I deserve this because I am not fighting back"
And as the sand fills my lungs
And the cords that keep me immobile
Get tighter and tighter
I care less and less.

So I just let it happen.

I let the fear consume me
The fear of not being enough for anyone
The fear of being unloved
Of dying alone,
Of making mistakes,
Of failing,
Of achieving nothing,
Of never having a moment that surpasses all moments
And after the fear comes anger.


Because I know,
I know that I should be better than this,
Stronger than this
But I am really not

Still I choke
All by myself
I go to that sad, sad
Piteous place, which I hate
Where I begin to think
“No one has ever hurt this way”
And I feel rancid
Because saying " poor me” never helped anyone.