A Language of Psychological Intimacy

I watch the setting sun setting fire to the sky, it's beauty is damped by my corroded breathing. Gasping for air, unable to fathom the carnage that I've just inflicted upon myself. The secrets couldn't be more visible. I've been reckless once again, forgetting any notion of a future or maybe I'm just too afraid to face the possibility of the unknown, and I want to remain swaddled in what is familiar despite how it burns me.
I'm both comforted and distressed by my loneliness. Despite how many words are shared with others, it all feels as if it's a waste of time. I don't know where the road will take me or where the finish line is, but there is a large part of me that doesn't want to find out. I've always believed that I would flame out before my time; perhaps I'm making this thought, this belief, this idea becomes the truth. Maybe I am my own catalyst. 

I'm poisoned by the things that are supposed to help me. I've broken myself into so many pieces over the entirety of my youth. I must have lost some pieces somewhere along the lines. Second chances have turned to third chances and beyond; now nothing is relevant. I hide behind laughter while the scars deepen, corrupting everything inside me. I no longer hold the belief that there is refuge from this pain. Everything in this world is temporary, including a cure. It's a lovely idea, though isn't it? The idea that one day all of this pain, anxiety and self-hated will become nothing more than a memory and will no longer be the driving force behind me. 

One long, hideously untuned violin scream crawls from somewhere deep inside my bones. I don't know it's purpose. Perhaps it's my volatile anger creeping up from the deepest depths of my psyche. I watch the colours of the early evening colour the room and my skin. I'm breathing in rainbows while I'm drowning the stains of my youth. The fatigue sweeps through my veins, sometimes I wonder why I even wake up at all; From the moment I open my eyes until I close them feels like an endless waste of time. I listen to the sound of my breathing, wondering why we have to breathe. Why are things designed this way?
Foolish and fragile is how I spend my days. Forever waiting for permission to breathe. I feel time slipping from me, captivating me and imprisoning me. I follow everyone around looking for a glimmer of guidance or a crumb of self-understanding. I don't know how to define myself, so I look for traits in others in order to be able to. Feelings of loss overcome me as I close my eyes. The pull of Clonazepam is taking me to a land I so dearly wish I could never come down from.