Anemone

25th, August. I'm occupying myself with things that would usually calm me down and make me feel better. Knowing you're there is enough. But something is strange. I still can't get out. "Slowly," you'd say. Yes, slowly. I don't have any right to complain. And I haven't been sleeping. It seems like sleep has disowned me. I wish I could sleep. 

I just need you to take care of me because I don't know how to take care of myself anymore. I have lost my sense to care for myself, to drag my arms around. Maybe you'll give me a bath. I don't know. I always don't know. I wish you could give me answers. But that's expecting to much of you. And I can't even give you something. I'm so selfish.