Poetry

Survival

Not being coy — *TW* Mental Illness & Medication

Photo by Alexander Grey on Unsplash

Too focused on survival
to develop any skills;
the only talent
I seem to have
is to juggle others’ wills.

Spent so much time hiding,
crouched in corners,
beneath beds

that I got

bent from the crying;
manic mourners
in my head.

Yes, I’ve tried complying
with what the voices
have all said,

but I don’t think that they’re lying
when all choices
lead to dead.

There’s no escaping death,
it’s for the fear I take the pills,
and I don’t mind if my breath
is emptied of
all of its thrills.