Shut down

The screen in my hand is comfort

A quick shot of dopamine

Colors, textures, smiles, people to see

Each scroll is not enough

I keep going til I feel seen

 

A broken form of therapy

Easy relief from my thoughts and dreams

But it leaves me like a hangover

Discontent, dizzy, exhausted

An even deeper sense of being unseen

 

Why do I leave my Father on read?

Is it shame, laziness, a desire to stay dead

All of these, yes, but deeper still

My fear of what’s under the hood

Knowledge that I’m really no good

 

My Father says child, I know

I know who you are and will be

There’s nothing you can say

That will shake the love out of me

 

Please just talk to me.