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wasted

I thought it was bad when I couldn’t do the things I needed to do— when food became a foreign ritual, and sleep was a fractured dream. When the laundry piled up, silent in the corner, and the trash remained untouched, an offering to my inertia. I thought that was the worst it could get. But here I am— begging myself to move, to feel something, to drive, to breathe in the world outside, to see the sunset and let it fill me. And yet, I can't even get out of bed. I want to. I want it so badly, my soul aches for it. I would give anything to rise, to feel the pulse of living again. But the hours pass— slipping, swimming like quicksilver, too fast, too distant. Where did they go? Where did I go? Four hours, fours hours spent pleading with a self that cannot respond, crying, aching for the strength that has abandoned me. I cannot move. I am here, still, wasted.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2025




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Date: 3/3/2025 6:45:00 PM
Emma, check your Soup Mail. Xox sally
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Date: 3/3/2025 4:52:00 PM
But Emma! You examine yourself, did SEE things that lay around you, Did make a to-do list, Did express need for strength—which equals hope…and you Got a poignant poem out of it! Wow can so man relate! 2nd sanza, wow! You’re too hard on yourself! From what i’ve read, you have alot to offer! Maybe play music more! Keep writing! xox sally
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