A dark doom engulfs me and I am stripped down to my naked body.

Scars line my wrists and thighs,

each one created to remind me of a beautiful, emotional disaster.

I run my fingers over my left arm and

where the incision once spew red life out of me

is now a bare artifact to look of past struggle and frustration.

I do not regret my actions!

I regret feeling anything in the first place!

If there were a switch I could turn on and off in my amygdala

then I could “properly cope”

or they could just cut out my amygdala all together

and leave me emotionless,

like an unfed zombie yearning for nothing but

the blood from my own flesh.

This cannot happen though.

I must feel and I must tolerate it.

No, I cannot continue being

the walking dead.

I need to move to something more animated.

I will NOT cut my wrists to prove I am alive.

I WILL notice my breath in the brisk air on a blistering day.

I WILL see my footsteps in the mud after a downpour.

MY sweat will drip down my neck in the midst

of a panic attack.

I WILL place MY hands

on the foggy glass window

and write my name

with my finger on my warm breath.

I don’t need to be a zombie.

I don’t need to be dead when I am alive.

I am alive.


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