My home was beautiful, and I was trapped in it. It was a sublime cell. A beautiful, wonderful prison and I was caught up in it. I couldn’t get enough. I drowned in it and despite it making me sick I was addicted to the feeling of being lost, of falling without restraint, of never hitting rock bottom, or rather rock bottom dissolving beneath my weight and me crashing right through it too.
My home was pink flowers, warm summer heat and honey-scented air. I got lost in it, revelled in it. But the grass had claws and the laughter had teeth and I got cut. Immediately, I fell in love with the feeling. The salty water burned me and my hunger could never be satiated. I adored the poison, I adored poisoning. The taunting only made it more compelling.
And I reached out to my demons for comfort. And they reassured me. The worst part is, I would’ve turned to anybody else, but only my monsters responded to my pleas. Only my demons ever cared.
So I lost myself again to the current, gave myself up willingly as sacrifice and felt happy only when the tide washed over me and swept me away, erased my kindness, compassion and softness. I got high on feeling myself piercing, strong, fierce, painfully straight and cutting, a perfectly-smoothed piece of glass that could saw through anything, break anything, even love.
But then I started hating it, damned my intense stare, cursed my unrelenting composure. I wished for my innocence and purety to come back when I called. Screamed that I was tired, exhausted of being a raw edge, I wanted to be a soft, reassuring curve.
July 6th 2015