Too Late

I don't think I even know how to be really, truly happy anymore. I've spent too long angry and sad and hopeless. I've spent too long wanting to be dead, and now I don't know how to want to be alive. Sometimes I claw my way out of the belly of the beast, but then when it eats me again I'm too weak, too ragged to fight back. And I hate to be alone in those moments, but nobody wants to be with me for them. Nobody wants to crawl into my cage with me and help me clean myself up to try again. Nobody whispers those words of encouragement I need. Nobody wipes away my tears or tells me I'm safe when I wake up too scared to move. Nobody notices how bad things are until I'm curled up on the floor, praying for the strength to walk, to talk, to breathe. Until my palms bleed where my nails have dug in and my ribs show. Until I'm too cold or too hot or too fat or too skinny or too, too, too. Too late. They don't see until too late.