Nothing I do has ever been real But I fear that If I was to commit myself to real I would never smile again. The only thing that has ever been genuine Has never felt forced Is this silence This depression and regret. My daily interactions Feel like a mockery of reality Meta-theatre on a grand stage. I hate myself. I hate my world. I hate every choice with which I have been faced And every decision I have made in return. I loathe myself for the hating. There is no joy in this This act of living. I must make a decision I must make a plan And I must make it soon. Something I can actually accept and complete. I need a rest. Desperately. But this world This life This living thing I am doing Does not allow for it. So I will steal my rest out from under it Yank the rug from beneath its feet As it’s done to me so many times. I cannot touch anything anymore Cannot let myself be touched. I am no use to the world as I am And I no longer have the strength to heal this. I have been made to feel as an uninvited guest Who has overstayed her welcome And as such I will give thanks for the time I have spent here And leave now Instead of waiting to be thrown out.