The Beggar

I once was rich

Rich off of you

Consuming all of you

Having all of you

My full course meal

Now, I get only part of you

And at first, I was mad

But now I find myself even begging for anything that could possible be left for me

Now I find myself even content with the scraps

Hell, I just want to eat

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In a perfect world, I wouldn’t be here.

So, this is it. My final goodbye (tuh, if only I were so brave). And here I am finding myself on a toilet, proving just how SHITTY life can be. I love my dogs, yet they are a source of guilt for me. Cookie is so cute, timid and damaged. I find myself in her and am glad I have been allowed a chapter in her life to help her see not everything is scary. Pebbles is so intuitive. She can always tell when something isn’t right. She uses herself as a weight, pressure to ease mine, as she sits on top of me. She also barks when she knows we’re arguing. She paws at me to pet her when she knows I need to feel texture, something soft to soothe this rash reality. She also brings me her ball, thinking that exercise will make anyone feel better. Hell, maybe she’s right. But the problem is that I just don’t have the energy to throw the ball anymore. I don’t have the energy to do anything anymore. Including live this wretched life that I was selected for. What did I do in the past to deserve this? I’m sorry, whatever it was. And here I am again, as it is almost 7 a.m., wondering how the day is stretching, running beyond me again. I am a mere hamster on the wheel, except for that I notice the mundane task of doing so and realize I have the option to step off. Everyone is too busy running, on autopilot, worried about the next step and I’m just worried about my last. I don’t care what you do with my body, but I want my story told when I am gone, okay (that and my dogs taken care of)? Tell everyone how I got here. And that is not to say I didn’t contribute my parts. I was a shit show from 19 to 25, hell with as much history as I had it had to manifest in myself somewhere, but now…now I am just a woman with a tendency for depression, with a history of trust issues who just wants to love and be loved in return. It’s still not easy, but that’s what I sought, simply.  I listen to the a/c fan whir in this room dimly lit by blue dragonfly lights at the twilight of 5 a.m. and feel as though I am either at a hospital or my grandma’s house (I went there when I was sick and she lit blue lights and blasted her fan). I like it because at least then I know I would be taken care of. I am ill, emotionally. Tell them all how I had no one to go to. Anonymous Reddit people provided more consolation (thank you). Tell them how you left me in my darkest hour (not to say that you had to be obligated to me, you stuck with me through a lot and I appreciate those times), and how my siblings just couldn’t read into me wanting to be invited to spend time too (it’s no one’s fault, please don’t take the guilt for this, I just want you two to live happy lives and although mom was horrible, she was young and she can’t help herself I want her to be happy too. I forgive you mom. I love you). Tell them how people who posed as friends hit me up, got my hopes up that someone could be genuinely interested in my soul, only to use me to get to you. Those people don’t matter that much, but then why does that shit hurt? People don’t know how much they can impact a fragile person. Tell them how Kay severed the cord; although, most people tend to do so with depressed people because it becomes too much. I tried to hide it from you, though —and it still happened. Which is why I don’t feel as though Julia could handle it. Why risk the last person I converse with? I’d rather keep it superficial (it’s not anyone’s fault, please don’t feel guilty). And then there will be the people who will criticize as usual and say I had those people to talk to, I just made excuses. No. Maybe you don’t get. Maybe someone who’s been here before will get it. Or maybe it’ll be like my fucking life and no one will get it. I had an inkling of a person I could expose my real raw self to without knowing they may expect some superficial “I’m okay though” response. I want to disclose that I’m not okay without the pressure of acting for anyone else’s comfort, or without being judged. No one can do that for me right now. No one. Hell, trying to get you all to understand is past the point of mattering anymore. Never mind. Tell them how I persevered, got my masters only to have my dreams ripped away from me like the dreams of immigrants (not that it’s the same, it’s not) finally reaching the U.S. border only to be met with harsh awakenings. Tell them of all the abuse. Every, last, bit. Tell them how every single mishap, underserving mishap —some of which has led to some that are deserving, has forced me to believe that I was meant to be life’s punching bag. Each jab taking something out of me. And now look at my life. It has dwindled down to nothing. Down to me being bedridden, without a job, single, broke, a bum, unwanted, fat, with nothing to contribute to society (or maybe something but I have been barred from offering what I have). I am nothing. My life is nothing. I want to close my eyes and finally feel nothing.

 

Tell them:

  1. Abusive relationships
  2. Cheating relationships
  3. Mom, oh mom
    1. Drug
    2. Gang
    3. Jail
    4. Domestic violence
    5. Psychotic breaks
    6. Physical and emotional abuse
  4. Castrating grandma
  5. Sectioned off as not one of my siblings
  6. Sexual abuse
    1. Grandpa
    2. Mom’s friends
    3. “friends”
  7. Public judgment
  8. Fake friends
  9. Harsh criminal system
  10. Everything, tell them everything!!!

Clothes

You roam

And no matter where you land, you bring clothes

Loads

You set them down

And to hang them up you loathe

Yet you complain that they’re there

The very mess you create

Is at what you hate to stare

But beware

Because no matter how many times you try to hide them, stuff them in closets, act like you don’t care

I am still there