There are moments where it feels as though everything moves in a Sluggish Black.
Moments like these are when the illness begins its creeping take-over,
where insomnia shows Her ugly face,
when the body aches set in once more and
the Bitch screams louder than the Logic; when the mind becomes an Asylum.
The time between these moments and the "normal" parts of my life seems to be longer with each instance. And even lesser, outwardly, at least, since leaving the home I shared with the Felon.
I wish I could say those moments has dissipated completely, but, alas, I've hit in the beginning stages again.
Breathing becomes a chore, a constant need to remind my Lungs.
The racing thoughts, as disruptive as a swarm of Winged Keys, invade every corner,
They tear through the Happy and Beauty
and giggle as They watch Confidence hit bottom once more.
These are the moments when I need help,
someone to care, to keep me from drowning -
but
To ask something of this caliber when the Money comes to exist
from my responsibility to care for Her?
Unacceptable.
The Care is genuine, however, it feels wrong to need it when Care is my job to give.
It's not my place to fall into the Sluggish Black -
I cannot be Selfish while She is under my Care.
I will write, I will breathe -
Let the moments fight for Air in my mind,
let the Hurt and Tears bleed White and Black -
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