As Random As It Can Be

There are good days and then there are bad.
So bad, that you can't make yourself get out of bed.
So bad, you have to remind yourself to breathe,
wish you didn't have to open your eyes.
So bad that you wish it was night time,
and you were under the sheets,
and mom couldn't see that your eyes are swollen from all that crying.
There are some days when you find yourself clasping the blade,
making small incisions, slicing, slicing away.
and some times, you cut a little too deep.
Your friends and family send you to a doctor,
a doctor who makes all the right diagnosis,
says all the right things,
while a storm brews inside, and you fear you will wither away.
As the world becomes a voyeur of someone's suicide,
you hide in the shadows, crawl back into your shell,
and try to grapple with demons.
You fall, and pick yourself up and repeat.
Away from empty rhetoric of healing, happiness and love.
You know the good days are some times rare, so you cling to them,
you cling to them like the last bite of your favorite ice-cream,
Savoring it, slowly.
Those days when your overbearing anxiety seems as light as a feather,
And the voices inside your head don't bother,
instead encourage you to go on a bit longer.
And you meet people, and you laugh a bit.
You set little goals, make promises to yourself.
And you finally go to bed, dreaming about another good day.

Blood here and fire there,
People succumbing to the war against humanity.
Screams surround us, and the bodies keep piling,
As the abyss of our collective doom slowly becomes a reality.

You begin to tell me your stories,
Of the dark dreams and thoughts,
And I stare at you with a child-like wonder.

You begin to tell me your stories,
Of the dreams that haunt you, of memories that don't let you be.
And I trace your scars with my fingers.

You tell me about the lost childhood,
Cursing yourself as you continue.
And I place my palm on the scars, trying to cover them and make them all disappear.

You tell me things that remind me of my own demons,
And I wonder how we are both the same,
From the same tree of sorrow, wishing for it to all go away.

You continue to tell me about the past,
As we get engulfed in this smoke.
Ashes around us, from things we are both trying to burn and from this cigarette you hold in your fingers.

You tell me your stories and I
go back to your childhood &
picture the child trying to fight the monsters.
The monsters that never go away,
Lurking under the bed.

I try to hold you, trying to figure out where the broken pieces go.
And you share your silence with me,
& we let everything get lost in this dimly lit room.

p.s.- This is for you. Wherever you are, whenever you read it. I'm here.