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Description
The ceiling is coming down.  It is gonna hit me and I am gonna die.  This is it, my death, and I am just lying here, watching it happen.  Great, now I’ll be dead and nobody will continue to care.
I am watching the popcorn rush towards my eyes, it’s gonna puncture my flesh and crush my body and all I do is lie here and wait.  Spectacular.  I’ve turned into an old person, just patiently waiting to die.  A strained smile tightens on my face, and maybe, just maybe it’ll stay while rigor mortis sets in.
The sun shines through the cheap Venetian blinds, thin and coated in years of dust and my depression.  They used to bring me food three times a day, tired of fighting me, of trying to jerk me out of this.  Now, they check once in a while to see if I’m alive, always expecting to see my feet swinging softly four feet off the ground.  They don’t check without reason though, I used to be suicidal, that was before I found the pill to kill my pain.
The ceiling continues to come down on me, no way baby, it never stops.  I fell in love with this hallucination.  I want the world to descend and let death take hold of me…I am way past the help of my parents, of the doctors, of the nurses, of people, of Prozac, those damn purple pills don’t do anything for me anymore.  People don’t either.  They talk to a catatonic shell of who I used to be.  I never respond, I like it like this.  Orange pill bottles litter my floor; my happy pills have become as useful and effective as chewable Flinstones, so now I take Vicodin.  It eats away my sanity, and I love it.  The edge that calls to me like a siren convinces me my brain is deteriorating, the edge they tried to hide, the one I found in my mind.
My parents come to see me every other day.  I register that they’re here, hear what they say, and feel them touch me.  Even the best perfectionists can’t save their child from their own mind splitting in two.  I swear I won’t last much longer.  One side wants to walk through everything, see it all clearly, and be alive, be sober, be happy.  The other, craves this drug induced euphoria…this escape…  They fear that their child is an addict, I say, they fear correctly.  They let me live here, they let me steal their Vicodin.  They fear I am an addict.  They are correct, and guilty of the same.  I just take my dosage in excess.
Once, my father asked why?  It was the last time I spoke to him, all I could say was, “the anger…” he never said another word; I still don’t think he understands.  The anger is still inside…and even when I’m hallucinating I can feel it bubble up and leave an acid trail I can’t get rid of.  I can’t quite come to terms with what he’s done to me.  Outside, I am a rock, a shell, impenetrable.  Inside, that night haunts me.  He won’t ever know…my father won’t know he made me this way…
I watch the ceiling crack and separate.  I watch it come down.  I feel the pills get stuck in my throat so I take more to push them down.  I can sense the tension in my movements, and consult with the other part of me, try to understand what’s going on.  My mind tells me I’m upset.  I’m sick.  My senses tell me that the ceiling is coming down to eat me.  Mind says remember your father, remember that night.  Senses say watch your death, love, it’s so much happier.  Mind never wins.  It’s too weak.  Wants to remember silly things, things that will make me hurt.  Suicidal things.  Never again.  My senses are filled with passion and life.  My senses win.  My senses want more pills.  More pills in, less life for me, pillslifepillslife.  One cannot exist without the other.  So I take more pills.
When I was eleven, my father raped me.  He hurt me; hurt me worse with his words than anything.  When he was done I told him I was angry with him…he didn’t care.  Never cared.  I don’t think he cares right now, or knows that he’s the source of my torment.

Description
The ceiling is coming down.  It is gonna hit me and I am gonna die.  This is it, my death, and I am just lying here, watching it happen.  Great, now I’ll be dead and nobody will continue to care.
I am watching the popcorn rush towards my eyes, it’s gonna puncture my flesh and crush my body and all I do is lie here and wait.  Spectacular.  I’ve turned into an old person, just patiently waiting to die.  A strained smile tightens on my face, and maybe, just maybe it’ll stay while rigor mortis sets in.
The sun shines through the cheap Venetian blinds, thin and coated in years of dust and my depression.  They used to bring me food three times a day, tired of fighting me, of trying to jerk me out of this.  Now, they check once in a while to see if I’m alive, always expecting to see my feet swinging softly four feet off the ground.  They don’t check without reason though, I used to be suicidal, that was before I found the pill to kill my pain.
The ceiling continues to come down on me, no way baby, it never stops.  I fell in love with this hallucination.  I want the world to descend and let death take hold of me…I am way past the help of my parents, of the doctors, of the nurses, of people, of Prozac, those damn purple pills don’t do anything for me anymore.  People don’t either.  They talk to a catatonic shell of who I used to be.  I never respond, I like it like this.  Orange pill bottles litter my floor; my happy pills have become as useful and effective as chewable Flinstones, so now I take Vicodin.  It eats away my sanity, and I love it.  The edge that calls to me like a siren convinces me my brain is deteriorating, the edge they tried to hide, the one I found in my mind.
My parents come to see me every other day.  I register that they’re here, hear what they say, and feel them touch me.  Even the best perfectionists can’t save their child from their own mind splitting in two.  I swear I won’t last much longer.  One side wants to walk through everything, see it all clearly, and be alive, be sober, be happy.  The other, craves this drug induced euphoria…this escape…  They fear that their child is an addict, I say, they fear correctly.  They let me live here, they let me steal their Vicodin.  They fear I am an addict.  They are correct, and guilty of the same.  I just take my dosage in excess.
Once, my father asked why?  It was the last time I spoke to him, all I could say was, “the anger…” he never said another word; I still don’t think he understands.  The anger is still inside…and even when I’m hallucinating I can feel it bubble up and leave an acid trail I can’t get rid of.  I can’t quite come to terms with what he’s done to me.  Outside, I am a rock, a shell, impenetrable.  Inside, that night haunts me.  He won’t ever know…my father won’t know he made me this way…
I watch the ceiling crack and separate.  I watch it come down.  I feel the pills get stuck in my throat so I take more to push them down.  I can sense the tension in my movements, and consult with the other part of me, try to understand what’s going on.  My mind tells me I’m upset.  I’m sick.  My senses tell me that the ceiling is coming down to eat me.  Mind says remember your father, remember that night.  Senses say watch your death, love, it’s so much happier.  Mind never wins.  It’s too weak.  Wants to remember silly things, things that will make me hurt.  Suicidal things.  Never again.  My senses are filled with passion and life.  My senses win.  My senses want more pills.  More pills in, less life for me, pillslifepillslife.  One cannot exist without the other.  So I take more pills.
When I was eleven, my father raped me.  He hurt me; hurt me worse with his words than anything.  When he was done I told him I was angry with him…he didn’t care.  Never cared.  I don’t think he cares right now, or knows that he’s the source of my torment.