my clock is stopped
and it'll forever be mid-morning. my room is warm and diffused with a white
wintry light. i'd say i've been in bed all day but there is no time here. i'm
having a brain vacation.
i've been nesting for days and barely conscious of the world, reading and writing and reading my old journals which to call triggering would be putting it mildly. i'm living half in that time, half in this, split somewhere in the emotional center of the brain. i see my room now and the shark tent i've constructed because my bed is not enough nest these days, i walk the dogs and drive and smoke but my heart is seized with being fifteen, the clack of my bones against one another, the prison-darkness of my parents' house.
it's turning me devious and contrary again and i've re-found the savage joy in lying, in keeping my secrets close.
i've been nesting for days and barely conscious of the world, reading and writing and reading my old journals which to call triggering would be putting it mildly. i'm living half in that time, half in this, split somewhere in the emotional center of the brain. i see my room now and the shark tent i've constructed because my bed is not enough nest these days, i walk the dogs and drive and smoke but my heart is seized with being fifteen, the clack of my bones against one another, the prison-darkness of my parents' house.
it's turning me devious and contrary again and i've re-found the savage joy in lying, in keeping my secrets close.
how carefully i
guarded my heart then. how safe to feel the tug of skin over hipbones as the
belly sinks into itself. you're right, i cannot help myself. i'm not eating
much at all and it's the only thing keeping me inviolable.
well. i am entitled to my own self-destruction. i am not fifteen anymore. and i am not leaving the tent.
well. i am entitled to my own self-destruction. i am not fifteen anymore. and i am not leaving the tent.
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