Fuck the Dancer

Random images on a Saturday morn.
Words encourage the needling thoughts in my head.
I'm a passerby, an interloper, among friends' lives.
Begging for attention in silent prayers of "Look at me" and "You've got to know I'm in pain!"
Wasted pleas that never leave my lips or come across the computer screen.
I lay across the bed, paralyzed with no knowledge of what to do next.
Only razor blades and pill bottles seem to hold answers.
I am trying to ignore their gravitational pull.
Such decadent need for attention, I tell myself. Just ask. Call upon a friend.
I wonder who will answer if I tried.
Will my body have a voice to ask for help?
The struggle is too confusing, too overwhelming, too repetitive.
I will not cry out. I will not ask. I will ignore the desire. And probably close my eyes to sleep.