The hollow week.

 

The week passes by with my running thought on how I'm not enough.

Being behind on things I didn't even know I was behind on. Trying to stay ahead of the current, before the hurricane strikes. I pack my supplies and save them under the floorboards, knowing damn well that not only the hurricane is here, but I'm being carried away by the winds.

I'm filling up the hole in my chest that conversations with my mother has left me.
I want to fill it with booze, with sex, with laughter with my friends, running, crying.
I feel the hollowness and try to suck away the venom. Spit it into my coffee thermos and leave it for three days, unwashed inside of my school backpack.

I want to get drunk and rowdy, I want to bite and scream, I want to fuck a man's brains out and have him beg me for more.

I want the naughty, the rough, I want my hair pulled and my body kissed. I'm angry and sad and anxious, I want the distraction. I want to run for 10 miles and cry halfway. 

I am sick. Sick of the fucking same cycle that brings me down everytime.

My therapist wants to send me to the psychiatrist, she wants me to get medicated and I'm terrified of losing myself, the only fucking thing that stays the same is my talking to myself like this.