This befuddled mess, this mess I want to blame on pms, has me compressed in the imaginary walls within my mind.
I remember this place. A place where I am at the mercy of unfiltered sensations, like bullets that graze the skin no matter where I hide. This is the fear that kept me small, kept me hidden, kept me under layers and layers of thoughts that spent hours chasing it's own tail. I remember once, Crazy had me pinned to something I was not.
And now I know,
the blues can visit,
but Crazy doesn't live here anymore.
I like to peel dried glue off my thumbs, dried skin from sunburns, and nail polish from my nails. I watch the flakes fall and stick to my cheap red coat. I brush them off as they were never a part of me, as if they never clung to me for dear life. It's the clinging that causes suffering. It's the piling that gradually suffocates. It's the hanging on for dear life that keeps us distracted from the freedom that comes from letting it all go, from peeling the skin that we think we need so badly.
I don't shun the dark anymore.
Instead, I run with the wild in the blackest of nights...