Reverie (When I'm Dying)

I don’t remember how I got here or how long it’s been and the linoleum floor is too cold and the bathroom lights too bright, I lay with my head next to the vent in the hopes it would make it easier to breathe because god knows I can’t, not right now and not like this and how am I supposed to with everything too loud and everyone too loud and screaming, screaming, screaming and I can’t tell if it’s me or if it’s even a noise or some new voice telling me I’m weak, I’m useless, I’m don’t deserve to, no, no, not again, not like this and not right here, with my family downstairs and still grieving some alcoholic’s death, not here and not now and I’m not going to do anything as always, curled up in ball on the floor, hit after hit after hit, and after it’s done it just starts again and I won’t do anything to fix that and neither will anyone else because I can’t breathe and I don’t deserve that, help or life or anything else, I’m too weak and too soft and too sensitive to it all and I don’t understand why I’m like this and why they aren’t and something has to be wrong with me, something has to be wrong with me, that’s it, that’s the problem with it all, the problem with me is that I’m me, I mess everything up, I always have and I try so hard to not to that I do anyways, there’s nothing to stop that, nothing to do, nothing unless I, no, no, no, we’ve been over this, we’ve been over this, we keep bringing it up, we, me, I, no, I want to stop shaking and crying and collapsing on the ground, I want to get up and keep going and make it past twenty-three, to have a home filled with plants and references no one else gets, with books and shelves and shiny things I found, a piano to practice and play and impress someone, I deserve something close to love and to know I don't deserve it at all, to sleep and eat and focus and breathe and breathe and breathe and...