Sometimes I have conversations with myself, inner thoughts I don’t share with no one else.
I ask how does it feel to mean nothing, to have no one love you and make it seem like it’s your fault. How does it feel to be in a room full of laughs and wish for silence because your loneliness feels less metaphorical.
Sometimes I have conversations with myself, hypotheticals I know won’t be judged.
Wondering how would they feel if I was no longer here, if I said I’m too fucked up to be alive and I want to be where pain doesn’t exist. Would it be okay if I choose to no longer feel and ran from the emotions that made me disregard the need to be alive?
Sometimes I have conversations with myself, comparisons between who I am and who I used to be.
Memories of wanting to be alive, verses planning my own funeral. Recalling how I wanted to make the world a better place and how now merely existing is taking too much of my soul.
Sometimes I have conversations with myself, talks to be had with someone who has your best interests.
Sometimes we disagree, sometimes we ignore each other and act without conscious but lately we share the same sentiments of exhaustion,
and we are tired.