End of the World

This is an old poem that I wrote that really resonates with my current feelings.

It’s not the end of the world
Is the worst thing to say to someone like me.
It will be okay, just give it time.
Is that supposed to save me?
The world is your oyster, they say
Enjoy it.
But how can I enjoy something that you’ll just swallow up.
How can I enjoy something that will rot.
How can i enjoy something that carries such a repugnant smell.
The world burns my nostrils
The world makes my eyes water.
They water so much that my cheeks have grown raw.
So raw that it burns to put on make up every day.
Thus why I barely wear it anymore.
And the world comes and asks me why.
Why do I hate it so much.
What did it ever do to me.
And every time I stare at myself naked in front of a mirror,
I think to myself that the world gave me this mind.
I think to myself that the world cut into my flesh as if it were a canvas and my blood was the paint.
I think to myself that the world told me I was fat.
I was worthless
I was pitiful.
But somehow the world still has the nerve
To smile in my face and ask of me to ravish it.
The world gives me people to love, and then reveals that they are truly stone.
Granite.
And I have carved them out so beautifully
Just so they can dismantle me
By thus proving that I am alone.
The world presents itself with promises
Swearing that if I try, I can do anything.
That love will always be there.
That suffering will never last.
The world tells me that I’m allowed to be happy.
But supplies nothing to be happy about.
The world does nothing but take, and take, until there is nothing left but the coping methods..
And I don’t even want those anymore.
The world tells me that I am allowed to love,
But I get ridiculed and left behind
Feeling !unappreciated, and worthless.
And I could sit there and tell my “friends” and my doctors how I feel
And all they tell me is that it’s not the end of the world.
They tell me to take medications
But my medications just make it worse.
They tell to sleep and eat like a normal person, but what is a normal person in this world.
They try to find diagnostics, and use statistics against me. They hear me but they are not listening.
It’s not the end of the world.
They tell me that I am sick.
They label me with this and that, so many problems, can I even be fixed.
They threaten me with hospitals
And swear that they will make it better
But I have lived this way for so long
I have come to realize that there is no better.
So do not tell me that it’s not the end of the world.
Because one day the world will implode in on itself.
And we will all turn to stone.
Our flesh will melt from our bones
And we will scream at the top of our lungs
The end of the world
Is every moment.
Every day.
The end of the world is now.
And you can’t tell me otherwise.