Zombie

A dark doom engulfs me and I am stripped down to my naked body.
Scars line my wrists and thighs,
each one created to remind me of a beautiful, emotional disaster.

I run my fingers over my left arm and
where the incision once spew red life out of me
is now a bare artifact to look of past struggle and frustration.

I do not regret my actions!
I regret feeling anything in the first place!

If there were a switch I could turn on and off in my amygdala
then I could “properly cope”
or they could just cut out my amygdala all together
and leave me emotionless,
like an unfed zombie yearning for nothing but
the blood from my own flesh.

This cannot happen though.
I must feel and I must tolerate it.
No, I cannot continue being
the walking dead.
I need to move to something more animated.

I will NOT cut my wrists to prove I am alive.
I WILL notice my breath in the brisk air on a blistering day.
I WILL see my footsteps in the mud after a downpour.
MY sweat will drip down my neck in the midst
of a panic attack.
I WILL place MY hands
on the foggy glass window
and write my name
with my finger on my warm breath.

I don’t need to be a zombie.
I don’t need to be dead when I am alive.
I am alive.
I AM ALIVE!

Lynsey again. I love writing both classical and contemporary poetry. Hardback books of “Misunderstood Insanity” coming out soon. Visit my blog for more poetry and my thoughts on mental health issues  

Www.misunderstood-insanity.com

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