I will admit that I am not much of a writer, however you cannot say I didn’t write. And what fuels writing is emotion and you cannot say I don’t feel. Most of the time, I wish I were wrong. I wish I didn’t feel a lot of the time. Lately, anxiety attacks eat away at me like the termites from inside a tree and when I lie in bed I feel like the few specks of sawdust so soiled the mites leave me be. Sleep is impossible. I mean good sleep. I just get small spurts of it and then back to work or studying. I’m sick and tired and I don’t know what to do or where to go. I just lie in bed. I never get out of bed. I don’t want to go out to a movie; it’s shameful to go to a movie alone as a young adult, isn’t it? And they people are less than nothing. They terrify me. I feel like if I don't do something soon I will never get better and its permanence is imminent. I'm being eaten alive by these butterflies inside me and it clicks, I realize my body is filled with nothing but me. Me caught halfway between suicide and barely adulthood. My writing is only the clinking on cell bars.