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luckyzukky posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
04591.
Some days I am farther along. And by that I mean: showers, yay, and perhaps breakfast. Standing barefoot in the kitchen making coffee before walking slowly back to my desk, careful not to spill. Then it’s off to writing, or whatever it is I can do in order to make enough to live by.
2.
Some days I spill the coffee and I collapse to the floor in tears, wondering if I’ll ever be okay. And normal.
3.
Some days it’s suddenly seven in the evening, and I’ve forgotten to have a bath, and fuck where have the hours gone and why do my shoulders hurt from being hunched over and shit pain shoots up from my elbow to my wrist. I munch absent-mindedly on a stale cookie and realise only too late that it’s my breakfast, lunch, and dinner altogether.
4.
Some days I tell myself I’m really going to take out the garbage this time, and I do. I even take my meds.
5.
You tell me over and over: I fucking love you. I hug the words to my chest like a talisman. Then I pick myself up, and all the other selves still lying on the cold floor in all the other days. I let the echo of your words travel to the darkest corners of myself. I say to no one in particular: I’m going to make it. Because I have to. Because I want to.
(t. de los reyes, read a little poetry)
(source)
Some days I am farther along. And by that I mean: showers, yay, and perhaps breakfast. Standing barefoot in the kitchen making coffee before walking slowly back to my desk, careful not to spill. Then it’s off to writing, or whatever it is I can do in order to make enough to live by.
2.
Some days I spill the coffee and I collapse to the floor in tears, wondering if I’ll ever be okay. And normal.
3.
Some days it’s suddenly seven in the evening, and I’ve forgotten to have a bath, and fuck where have the hours gone and why do my shoulders hurt from being hunched over and shit pain shoots up from my elbow to my wrist. I munch absent-mindedly on a stale cookie and realise only too late that it’s my breakfast, lunch, and dinner altogether.
4.
Some days I tell myself I’m really going to take out the garbage this time, and I do. I even take my meds.
5.
You tell me over and over: I fucking love you. I hug the words to my chest like a talisman. Then I pick myself up, and all the other selves still lying on the cold floor in all the other days. I let the echo of your words travel to the darkest corners of myself. I say to no one in particular: I’m going to make it. Because I have to. Because I want to.
(t. de los reyes, read a little poetry)
(source)
