Tears

You know it's bad when you wake up in tears. You know it's worse when you wake up in tears and your first thoughts are a thanks giving for a respite lasting no more than twenty hours. A praise to god that you made it through a tangle of dreams, simulated loss rivaling your worst reality. How long must I be tortured by my own body? The titches, the hot flashes, the shivers, the spasms. Nightmares fraught with physical pain. Mother, you told me they couldn't hurt me. Why then do I awake doubled over and crying out? 

The pills barely bring me to normality.

I long for the simplicity that followed the overdoses. I recall the sheer possibility I felt coursing through my limbs, elevating not only my mind but what seemed my body to a state of ecstasy. I was alive, surpassing all odds, I was alive. More remarkably I was happy. 

I could do anything. 

Here I sit in the bath, a basin I have stained in blood, 

my sense of self as stagnant as the water surrounding me.

205 days. 
It's time to run.