The Fog Poem by Leah Ayliffe

I don't know where I'm supposed to be.
I'm angry at him.
I'm angry with myself.
Depression is back, not in its beautiful melancholy form, but in its desolate heaviness that makes it hard to breathe.
Hard to want much of anything.
To be alive.
The storm is closing in,
I'm back in the haunted house that's dressed like a fun house.
I'm tired. So God damn tired.
Exhausted.
I can't pretend to be okay. I don't care to anymore.
They can try to help but I'm not open to receive.
Flatlined, dead again.
I've forgotten the best parts of me.
To leave or to stay, I really don't think it matters.
I just want to stay in bed but every hour I'm reminded of the mundane things needed from me.
And the wonderful things too.
They tend to blur together now, because nothing really matters.
Where's the pause button. I need the pause button.
To float in nothingness until the storm passes.
I know the sun is there behind the black clouds.
I once wrote about a whole life in knowing that, in knowing the sun is still there.
It sounded so dreamy then.
Now it tastes like a bitter lie.
Ironic, it is actually the Truth.
But it feels like a lie today.
Tomorrow is something else.
Maybe I can make good. Or maybe I can exist in the fog:
dim, quiet, sad, lost,
in complete surrender that I may never,
never be found.