It isn't bullsh*t. It isn't fake. It isn't just some dream or a nightmare that will leave eventually. It isn't this little hiccup that you can fix with a glass of water. Magical pills don't exist to take away what happened. They don't ****ing exist.

Relief isn't real.

What is real?

These voices in my head, they might be. The people who want to get into my house, they might be. The cars that follow me, they might be. The man at my door, he might be.

What is real?

The feeling of bark against my face is. The dirt in my mouth, drying my throat is. The pain in my back is. The sun burning my eyes is. Being unable to move is. Trying to breathe but keep choking on air is. My arm feeling like it's broken is.

The blood is.