Ceiling's weight

I looked at my cellphone as another reel passed by.
The sound of the clock had half my attention,
the hum of the fan had the other.

My body sat gracelessly on the couch,
bare feet resting on a pillow,
hair cascading freely down my back.

I wanted to smoke so badly that I clenched my teeth.
My gaze drifted to the ceiling,
my head falling back against the couch with no resistance.
A sigh escaped my lips, and I closed my eyes.

My mind was so loud that everything else went numb
the phone, the ceiling, the clock.
Why do thoughts scream the loudest when silence is suffocating?

It was 3 AM.
At that hour, nothing feels sacred.
Nothing is black or white.
Nothing is good or wrong.

Was I always this clueless?
I used to hate messy, clumsy people.
But now I realize I’m clumsy as fuck.
Do we hate what we are?

I wanted to wave goodbye to all the things that bothered me,
all the things about myself that bothered me.
Guilt crept in again, the familiar weight of being "bad."
Was I always sabotaging the good in my life,
or is this a new trait?

But then his words made sense
I don’t own all the responsibility.
I don’t own all the blame.

I own my anxiety, my feelings, my erratic actions
always wanting to escape sensations I don’t like,
always wanting to run from what could harm me.

Maybe I will always be a coward,
running from everything,
avoiding people, avoiding consequences.
Maybe I’m just that sick.

Well, you can take another shot,
and I’ll keep working on myself like I always do.
But for the first time,
I don’t want to be the one to decide.