Wrap me up in polythene plastic. Saran wrap around my lungs, and I do this to myself too often.
Build cages of fractured bones and punctured skin, music to my ears the flattening of thoughts that burn up in my head. I could let my youth take the blame, the hollow timeframe of adolescence carrying the weight of every reckless choice I had made. From fifteen to eighteen, regret built a home inside my skull, a parasite I could not rid my body off. I’m still trying, trying to fight it.
With the passing of each day I feel my skin tighten around my neck. I feel the nights starting to slow down, and I find myself thinking about yesterday or tomorrow or the day after that, anything to escape today. The present has never really been something I cope with well. I’d much rather think about the inevitability of death, than stare at the scars on my ceiling, I’ve come to know them all too well.-H