Nothing of Consequence

I put on my makeup. I put on too little, or I put on too much. I eat, too little or too much. I smoke, too much. I drink, too little. I sleep like the dead, or I sleep like I'm on a cliff's edge.

Dressing is an effort, sometimes I just find the first thing, crumpled in a heap, and wear it. Sometimes I change 10 times before I am happy. Washing is an effort, sometimes I forget the arm that holds the sponge. Sometimes, I forget my mascara, or my deoderant, or my perfume, or to brush my hair.

My eyes feel dead but I am told they're not. My mouth feels desert dry, yet still I can speak. My legs feel heavy and weighted, except I'm walking. I ran half way home. I wanted to curl up on the warm grass and cry it all out of me. The tears flow so freely from my eyes that no-one notices any more.

I walk, and I am hazy, my vision is blurred. I am alien. Behind my sheet of glass. Stifled underneath the bell jar. The bulls look at me, and I imagine their eyes to be evil, they stare and I wish they would stop. I cross the road in front of the traffic, wondering what would happen if I lingered a few seconds.

The days blur together messily. My food doesn't fill me, my drinks don't quench my thirst. I smoke and smoke and read. Read anything. Books which whisk me into their world. Blog posts which have lain there for weeks unread. I am disturbed as I try to block everything out. He gets annoyed with my non-being.

I wonder if this is how he felt in those silent days. That lifetime ago before he found the rocks amongst the storm.

Every chat is laced with poison tips. Waiting for me to inelegantly brush past so they can dig in. I dramatasise, but no-one is listening. I am invisible now. Is it for me? Is it me? Is it for everyone else, these dramas, this sadness, emptiness? Or is it just me?

If it's not, then I guess this is a cry for help. Can anyone possibly do anything now, seeing as I don't know what to do myself, or what would help? I need someone to do it all for me. I feel small. And lost.