It Hurts

It hurts.

Most days, this kind of statement would piss me off. I need more information: what hurts; what happened; how bad does it hurt; and so forth.

But sometimes, when things just hurt, the most I can muster is a feeble "it hurts."

Things become so irrational when the brain is flooded with pain. Survival instincts kick in, adrenaline pumps; shit just happens.

I can't deal. That's sort of a hip way of saying "it hurts."

Something new for me is that I get mad. Everything becomes a pet-peeve, so my blood boils for no reason, but I don't want to burst, so I avoid things. I run away from interaction because I hate everything, but I don't want to put that on people.

I can become self-destructive. In an effort to block out the soul-crushing pain, I try to shut down, turn off the senses. Where tranquility offered peace, speed becomes soothing.

I was a good person, once. Losing control over my thoughts and how I feel is horribly dehumanizing for me; I feel like I'm not a man. I can't accomplish the things I set out to do.

I am filled with capacity and potential, but I can't realize my dreams.

What the fuck am I.