as you are.

It’s too easy to feel fucking terrible. And the way your moods swing, it’s always too much. Your brain goes on overload and all of a sudden, you can’t breath - sure as hell can’t sleep - and you’d give anything to just make it fucking stop. Your veins throb and you bring your bones to your temple, pounding; you’re all too aware of how the angles fit just right, how the edges of your mind become ever more blurred, fraying like old fabric.

This is your brain off drugs. This is your life, right here, in front of you.

And you’d like to shout, to destroy something - anything - but you won’t because you can’t and you’re frozen as you are, an image of anxious agony. You’re furious and weeping and thinking too fast to follow, because this is how you live, but it’s also how you die. You can’t handle it - you don’t know how to - and it’s not something you can fix, or even change. It’s you, as you are, and it’s always too fucking much.