How many times am I going to end up here?

Leaving class early because I can’t bear to have anyone see my whole body shake as I break down.

Back in the same room, time and time again, talking and talking, because: “Everyone’s worried about you,” they say.

And in that room I’ve mastered the art of revealing so little so that they don’t send me away, but I tell them just enough so they know they have to help me.

How many times am I going to end up here?

Feeling like I’m slowly falling into a dark pit of insanity,

the arms of my terrors dragging me into the abyss.

Some days I don’t want to get better,

because if the arms of my terrors aren’t engulfing me in their satanic love,

who’s arms will?

How many times until I will be free?

How many?