The Way I Bleed

A poem about emotional struggle and grappling with the complexities of the mind

I was sitting in my chair,
I was sitting in my chair, thoughts swarming.
There was a pain in my chest,
but I did not keel over with pain.
No, I sat in it, with a heavy heart
with a burdened mind I sat,
that is all I seem to be able to do...
sit
I bleed
but my blood isn't red
It is the mess on my floor
it is my unmade bed
it is the shower I have yet to take
it is the laundry bin that overflows in my closet
the dirt on the floor
the clutter on my desk
It's is the shrinking during confrontation
it is the self isolation
it is the exhaustion
it is hyperventilating on the floor
it is crying in a bathroom stall
it is the lump in my throat
it is the sobs only my pillow hears
it is listening to music in every empty moment
it is scrolling endlessly
it is distracting one's self from reality
it is the way I soak in it
I sit
I sit in my pain, covered in my own blood but I will never say a word
I loath my pain but it is the blanket I tug ever closer even when I'm slick with sweat
I pull it closer, choaking on its edge
I pull it closer, drowning in its mass
And suddenly I cannot find where it begins or ends
I am being swallowed whole in this blanket,
buried before I am gone
I have lost more blood than my body can sustain
I have lost more of myself than my mind can handle
I am only human, mortal and full of pain
I am drenched in sticky blood; my blood that will forever leave a stain,
It is from this mess I am re-born
It is from this that I will I ever be the same.