The Small Stain of My Existence

My numbness envelopes me. Channelling cocoons with no commensurate butterfly.
Non-transformation.

I have lived in fear since I became conscious. Fear of being wrong being different - yet at times celebrating my weirdness. Confusing.

So still am I.

The waves of shame slam into me, force my head under.

where next, how next? I am just done now? Is there no making left? Some ideas came, left unrealised. My head hurts me with its recriminations, accusations, judgments. The y are endless, tireless, devout. Killing me cruelly, little nicks, vast chunks of me fall away.A phantom lingers, in and out of bed, wearing a path into the house landscape.

So much potential, thwarted, wasted, eroded. So little left to offer. Doesn't that mean it's time to die? What positive do I bring to this world? Just something to worry about. The relief that would come when I finally die, that is what I believe. Grief then relief. Because people must move on and live their lives. I will be a small stain perhaps.

My brain is wasting away, losing power, losing the power of deduction. Losing logic.

I would be all sadness save I am numb.

Waiting.