by Leah Stone
Oh how addicting Dysphoria becomes.
I catch myself asking questions more than acquiring answers, which now that I think about it, it's not an unusual occurrence; They echo loudly in my mind, and I have no control over how they end. Can no one find the words to comfort me? Is this how it'll always be? There's a loop inside my head of everything I should've said when I felt disconcerted; When I froze in fear of my own thoughts, because no one could see me. My lips have sealed shut for far too long, so here I am...Can anyone hear me? There's an opaque weight that's settled on my chest, and it's been far too long since I've gotten to rest; When I speak out no one hears me, they only look at my calamity and sigh,
"What is it this time?"
I'm so sorry my disorder afflicts rancor. If you could simply listen when I say I'm lost and there's a discomfort inside that stalks me, I don't know where to go from here; All I've ever done is run, point me in the right direction and you won't have to handle me again.
"Only you have the answer, don't be so dull. I've done all I can do, you're just so...doleful."
Do I want to be seen, or do I want to be heard?
Which is worse?