The prettiest roses aren’t real since I can’t completely grasp kindness with all the hate surrounding us. I don’t want to mess up your plans, especially since people view you as useless and sad, but I think things can improve—perhaps from crazy daydreams of flying monkeys in my head to odd, dreamlike meetings during sleepless nights. I realize others like to watch you because of the constant rumors and threats for the last 25 years, which have darkened your life.
I often think about whether my broken spirit is stuck in a mechanical world, caught between the desire for a meaningful life and the turmoil in my head. Or perhaps my crazy thoughts stem from a deep sense of emptiness instead of self-judgment. Every book title I once read felt like a big discovery—tales where kids are trapped like animals, and heroes chase them as the sun goes down. Sometimes, I question if these weird hands I see are a result of a head injury or if I’m losing my mind from using drugs every day.
At times, I feel let down because it seems like everyone around me has skills and society treats them well, while I keep battling anxiety, learning challenges, and feelings of not being good enough. My so-called friends make me think that every person who is struggling is like a statue—stiff and without hope. The counselor I have is a puzzling blend—sharing stories about people in hospitals who aren’t on medication and others from mental health centers, which makes me more confused.
Every voice in my head is different, and it feels like they don't care—never allowing strangers to really connect with me—yet they explain my strange crying with their quiet presence. When I thought about ending my life, everyone would be happy because of my daily habit of trying to fill the emptiness with harmful things; still, my heart was taken by a couple of wealthy men in a story about helping others. Every dead animal on the road seems like a plan to show how corrupt the government is and how using lead poisoning is a dangerous treatment for those who are disabled and old. I usually don’t cry, but I did because life can be hard to understand, especially when the happiest memories leave me, while everyone else can forgive their enemies, I can’t because my heart is broken. I want to talk about my broken heart more than my mom's past boyfriends. These words are true in a world where kids want to be like their parents, but things can get messy and hurtful when they look up to the wrong people.
