Diagnosed by a doctor in my imagination,
and several in the realm I am trapped in,
I take my medication,
but I know it will never work,
because there is no cure,
for the constant chaos.
It doesn’t live in my head,
just somewhere above my heart,
clouding her,
whispering ideas and idealisations,
until she has gone mad.
My heart is Miss Havisham,
wild and wistful,
but cursed and constant,
carved and marked,
before she even has a chance to protect herself.
Dying cake,
on the nightstand,
chained to the few moments,
where she listened to the sickness,
taken in,
seduced by the idea that someone could love her.
They always mean too much.
She always gives too much.
I always ask for too much.
If only,
too much was enough.
If only,
there was a cure.
If only,
I could smother her in her sleep,
bringing us both peace.
