I want to write.
I know I want to write.
I have to.
I have all these thoughts.

Piling up inside me like
The clothes you toss on
That chair. You know the
One I'm talking about. I

Know you do. The one
That seems to have an
Ever-growing pile of
Clothes that you just

Never folded or put away.
The one you look at when
You're laying in bed with
No motivation, so you

Study the chair – knowing
That you should clean up.
But also knowing that you
Won't. Because just

Because you should, or
You have to, doesn't mean
You can, doesn't mean you
Will. And so, I watch my

Screen. No words appearing.
No words leaving me. They
Stay inside me, piled up. Till
One day, gravity wins and

They all spill out.

I still have one of those chairs. It isn’t as bad as it used to be. I take medication, I have a wonderful support system, and I have genuine hope for what my own future will look like. Now, the chair just hold a couple items I haven’t gotten around to, but they hang off the back and I can still use my chair. Before, the chair became unusable and existed as this monstrous reminder that I was a mess. It would lose shape and transform into this creature that taunted me. Maybe, I’ve just learned how to turn on the light and see it for what it really is.