the worst of it all is you now live for others, no longer for yourself: all you could’ve have done, all you could’ve amounted to, is done, in the past, wistful and soon forgotten. there is nothing more for you: you’re merely kindle at this point, for your children’s fire.
if at that.

did you ever think it would get easier? panic abounds. gritted teeth and an excuse to wrestle the pillow. too hot, too cold, too soft, not hard enough, not dead enough, too much alive, too fearful to let go, and time slips, time presses on, time abuses you, time mocks me, molasses the days but lightening quick nights. she will leave you one day. he will look at you with disgust. she will find no way to console you and tire of it herself.
panic abounds, panic abounds, and makes marbles of you.

are there things broken? yes, obviously. never mending. daisies greyed out and lost to harsh winds. that’s silly, empty out the mind, what do you see?
i see a vast acres of nothing, blank slate, stale ground, arid field.
i see weeds and cracked patches of densely packed earth.
i see myself in the middle of it all, wordless, tongueless, handless, immobile and futile.
i see time and growth and death and life without me and it brings me to my knees weeping.
i cannot live forever and cannot get past that simple fact.