4.

my friends don't realize how sick i am,
or what is wrong with me... if, indeed,
there is something wrong with me, and
it makes things hard sometimes, because i
have to spill my problems on inocent bystanders on
blogs instead of people that actually know me.
but, it's not so bad, because one doesn't have to deal
with the people they talk to on a daily basis
if they don't even know them.

i think my friends would listen, if i asked them too,
supplying advice, information, much help, reassurance,
but i don't want them walking around each day with
everything hanging above them: storm clouds stalking.
so, instead, i listen to them, because everyone should
have someone to talk to, if they want it, and i'm
always there (i hope they know that).
always, always there for them.

and that's fine, as long as i can scream when i get home, because
by the end of the day, i have hundreds of worries and
contemplative thoughts whirling in my mind, and it's all at
warp spead so if i try to stop them, they cut my skin and leave me
without bandaids, and i end up bleeding everywhere, and
all i can do is hope someone won't find me lying there on my
kitchen floor trying to tape my hands back together,
and by the time they get there (if they do, that is)
all the worries and contemplative thoughts that weren't
even mine to begin with have already driven me to a point of no return, and
i begin to wonder and worry of making it back to conciousness,
back to my home, in time to put dinner on the
table for daddy and for our housemates, so i climb
out of my comatose state, take a couple deep breaths,
and walk down the street. a metaphorical street,
of course, one with no name; it doesn't have one...
(but even if it did, it wouldn't matter
because it wouldn't lead home anyways, because i
have serious doubts that home is even real.)