I Wouldn't Want You to Get Caught Up in Trying to Fix Me.
I'm soaked with cold sweat,
and under three blankets.
My eyes are searching for light,
but it seems it's been taken.
My nails are tearing my flesh,
and gray eyes start their rolling.
If air could find its way to my lungs,
would it be mine, or would it be stolen?
It's like I fell into the ocean,
and I lost my sense of sound.
My mind sailed away, a shipwreck,
my feet can't feel the ground.
Sick steams in my stomach,
madness wells in the brain.
Do I want to be fixed?
Am I really insane?