I took the mask off, then the noise came back,
like it had been sat there, waiting to attack.
ADHD laughing, boots on my floor,
kicking every locked up memory through the door.
I stopped smoking the tree, thought I’d feel clean,
but now my mind’s louder than it’s ever been.
No fog, no mute button, no soft little screen,
just every old wound replayed in between.
They said meds might help slow my brain,
stop it tearing through my skull like a freight train.
Then the NHS cocked up one genetic mistake,
and now my heart’s the thing they won’t let me risk or break.
ARVC stamped where it shouldn’t be,
positive gene slapped on paperwork for me.
So the help I was promised gets thrown to the side,
unless I fancy gambling with the engine inside.
So here I am, wide awake again,
running on fumes, old grief and pain.
Two or three hours, if sleep feels kind,
then I’m back in the ring with my own bloody mind.
Loss walks in. Trauma pulls up a chair.
Memories start talking like I asked them there.
My brain runs on steam, it doesn’t need me,
it doesn’t need my body, doesn’t need me to breathe.
I see things now when the nights get long,
and people still ask what the hell is wrong.
Like I’ve not been fighting a war in my head,
while my body begs please, just go to bed.
What I’d give for quiet, just one dead night,
no loops, no guilt, no half remembered fights.
No past crawling in with its muddy shoes,
no brain making films I didn’t choose.
Maybe burnout will hit like it has before,
and I’ll stop feeling everything for a bit more.
Not fixed. Not healed. Just finally numb.
Because I’m so tired of being awake for what I’ve become.