Please Make Me Better

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I’m pretty sure that I’m sick and I’m asking you to please make me better.
I know that it’s a lot to ask since we hardly know each other but everyone else has either backed out or I’ve destroyed them in the process. So I’m turning to you: Please. Make. Me. Better.
Lying in front of a window on a bed of broken glass wasn’t how I started the day but it was definitely how I ended it. I’ve been here for hours and I can feel the familiar crunch of the pieces under my back every time I breath in and out, the rise and fall of my chest is all it takes to crush the fragments under me. I’m staring up at the ceiling, and I’m really wishing I could turn my head to the side but there seems to be a schism between what I want to do and what my mind is telling me to do; right now my mind is winning and it’s seemingly conflicting with the rest of me, these things are hard to describe.
If I could I’d move my arms, I’d get up, I’d walk out of this room and never come back but I can’t because the glass is digging into my back and I’m afraid if I try to get up I might receive more lacerations than escape is actually worth. Maybe if I wasn’t so pretentious I’d describe it as paralysis but I’m pretty fond of description and my mind is telling me that metaphors are safer than blunt INFORMATION.
To put it lightly I feel like I could be dying, but nothing on my body hurts, there’s an acute blocked feeling coming from under the bridge of my nose but I can’t put my finger on it, it’s not a cold, it’s not my sinuses but it’s something, the same something that’s allowing me to see only in black, white and shades of muted blue.
My thoughts are swimming. They’re drowning actually.
(Now, read this bit slowly, make everything three syllables long and you’ll know, you’ll understand)
T h e y ‘ r e c r a w l i n g .
I t c h i n g .
P u l l i n g .
D r a w i n g themselves from my head.
And I’m okay with it, I’m okay with it. I’m okay with waiting, I’m okay with losing my soul and letting my mind take over because, although fickle, I trust it. Though that alone should be a warning sign.
So if I end up managing to get up off the floor and I’m able to get this message out, then I’m talking to you. I am talking directly to you when I say:
Please make me better.
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