The colloquialism "stress will kill you" is true:
I can feel it ravaging my soul and my physical body.
One's heart, one's ribcage, shouldn't feel like this.
How long, do you think, until it takes Its Toll and makes Its Call.
I feel Anxiety sucking the breath from my lungs;
What else can constrict my chest so?
My heart aches both physically and soulfully--
I know what squeezes.
I pound my breast,
I gulp deeply to expand my lungs.
No change results: tightness remains.
How long am I expected--oh--
To live as such...
Trial after Trial After Trial.
After Trial After Trial After Trial.
You demand that I exist and continue.
To ease your own fear and pain?
At the expense of my Own Life?
Yes, you do, don't do.
But I'm fucking tired.
I weary of fights and struggles and of
Just getting By.
Survival is for our ancestors,
And wild deer and insects.
Greedily, I want more.
If that's wrong, then let me,
Please, for any gods' sake,
Go the way of the wild deer, the insect, the ant
Crushed thoughtlessly beneath your sandal.
For I am not interested in this kind of living.
I am not interested in
From one emergency to the next.
What is the fucking point?
There is fiction. There is life. What is the difference?
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