"No, I'm not real. I never was."

Physically and mentally, I've been constantly sick.
Dying with every chance I get.
Losing it.
If you knew half of what I know, you'd lock me up for good.
All promises moot.
You can't begin to sympathize.
Punching pillows, sweating bullets, and fighting back screams.
Skipping sentences because I think you're in my head.
"I can't rhyme.
I can't breathe.
I can't write.
I can't be.
There's terms and conditions to keep me from speaking.
Words and religions to keep me from living."
You think it's funny.
The way none of it's funny.
And the way nothing makes sense.
And you can't get it through you're pretty little head that I'm fucking sick.
And I hate the way you look at me like I'm faking every bit of this.
Like "it's all your fault."
You don't even understand how much it is.

I just wish you could be wrong about one thing.

"You're already the voice inside my head."

I miss you.