Tired by Ardin Patterson.

How do you write when your heart is in pain, and your soul feels shattered
like glass smashed against the pavement?

I shed tears for people I don't know…

Weeping endlessly as the day creeps on, like tiny spiders making the
long trek across a never-ending surface, searching for the safest corner.

There are no safe corners.

I lie to myself at times, but I know it’s true because there are nights when I
lie awake in my bed and realize that no matter how far I pull my sheets
over my head, it won’t protect me from the monsters.

My hands shake too much to focus and I can’t tell if it’s a boiling rage
that’s been sitting dormant inside me since childhood, or fear.

Fear of what?

The lingering sense that any sort of security is false, and that this roof
over my head won’t be enough to stop the rain from getting inside my head.

Other people’s thoughts, fears, pain—all seeping into my head and
slithering down until it fills my entire being, and all I can do is sit there—heavy.

I don’t know how to express these feelings…is it something close to betrayal?
Is it anger?

Maybe I’m just tired.

I’m tired of the suffering. Tired of the fear. Tired of the monsters, that I
used to think were just my overactive imagination playing tricks on me late at

Yah…I’m tired.

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