They say you are silly. They say you are silly to cry over milk that has been spilled so long back that most of it has trickled down through the little nooks and crevices of the tiled floors. They say you are silly to lose sleep over unnamed, unquantifiable elements that exist only as figments of your imagination.
They call you stupid. They call you stupid for feeling fear everytime you feel love. They call you stupid for not being able to tell your hands to stop trembling and your feet to stop tingling and your heart to stop racing and your nausea to stop surfacing and your breaths to stop coming in short little bursts. They call you stupid. Stupid for not being enough. Stupid because people go through worse and survive. Stupid because you let silly little things get to you. They call you stupid till their voices become so loud that you hold a pillow over your head to drown out the voices, and to shut them out you make noises, albeit soft ones lest you wake someone up and cause them inconvenience, and you keep groaning and counting backwards from 1000 and you smoke a cigarette and lie down and then move around, all the time wondering what you did wrong, hoping to exhaust yourself till you can finally slip into a hopefully dreamless sleep.