Ides of March

It’s the fifteenth of March, twenty-twenty-six
And I’m already someone who is broken without any fix
I promised to be a better version
Well, down in the drain goes my insightful vision.

God forbid I’m overwhelmed
The ones I live with just yelled.
They haven’t even dared to delve
into my heart’s swell.

I lie down on my mattress, flat
feeling like a buffoon, a daft
Yes, I’m breathing, all fine
Not sure if I’m living, is this a sign?

A sign to let go of everything, perhaps
Or maybe a notion for a relapse?
Neither of the possibilities is better than the other
All I can do is thrive, though I'm seconds away from pulling the trigger
a trigger, to extinguish the friendly fire inside, my soul would wither.

I’m on the verge of giving up
But I won't, not now, not tomorrow, not next week
I’m going to survive, with or without a support club
because after all, success is the one thing I seek
And I'm not giving up.
-maddie