Now I struggle to find anything to say at all, and when I do have something in mind, it’s never anything of importance.

I remember when I viewed my mental illnesses as a fight worth fighting. As if I actually had a chance at winning against something that will only cease to exist when I do.

Every day I don my armor and grab my tools. But it is so tiring, and no sleep can replace this endless exhaustion that has molded itself a permanent home in my personality.

I’m flat and dull. My eyes don’t smile anymore, and my voice is monotone and blunt. I’m a blade that has already run its course. It’s time to throw me away.

I seem to leave a trail of seeds wherever I go, and instead of flowers, there is poison. It surrounds me and coats my paths already traveled. It waits eagerly to grow on paths I have not yet stepped onto. I can’t get away from it. It covers my arms, legs, face - my entire being. Everyone knows it’s there. I am tangled; so badly tangled that I’m afraid I’ll need to be cut free.

I leave a sour taste in place of a sweet one.

I wish I could fix it, but my fighting mind has gone to pasture. It’s done a lot of hard work, and now it’s time to rest.

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