sometimes i can wrap myself up in precious little untruths. white lies. seiðr. it smells like incense and fire and wax, oatmeal lotion and sleep. cotton and leather and rayon. i can tell myself "i am better now" and sometimes i can even believe it. when that is asking too much, i can scream it, drive it to my skull with jagged fingernails and cracked palms and this illusive, incredible dream of normality.
i would like to shed this anxiety like an outer skin, i would like to go from point a to point b without fishtailing from start to (almost) finish. i would like to see prettier, kinder numbers. i would like a lot of things.
i am not better now.
how can i want to be so totally independent and then want the complete opposite. that's not even a question. i want to hurt more. i want to suffer.
it's not scary. my thighs are scary. the lake water in my eyes, that's scary.
i need to get rid of things. past things. why have i hoarded so much? i don't want it. it's suffocating at every turn. i want things to be simple again. i want to go back to how it was. i was stabbed in the back, recently. "stabbed" is a harsh, untrue word. i've already healed. but it makes me wonder.
(would you chase me?
would i let you?
you shouldn't have left. it brought all of this back.)
i don't even mean that much.
it's time to branch out a little. summon a little bit of strength. it's hard to do when i'm this big.
i'm huge. huge, huge. cried an ocean. a whole lot of birds, and one little mouse.
i'll get better on that. and then i'll try again.
i miss dying.
