Fantasy Feelings

Stream of consciousness

*TW* self harm, vague illusions of physical abuse and trauma

The place I feel like I belong to most is my bathroom. The doors closed, the locks providing a false sense of security, as they are easily opened from the outside. The lights stay off, we can't let anyone know our location. Somehow the dark feels safer. Outside of this room, the world is vast and unruly, confusing and large. In here, all four corners are visible. Everything that got locked in stays in, and everything on the other side stays outside. I am safe here. While the walls are thin and the taunts still reach me, the fists that these words spew from can't hurt me. However, this palace has its own demons, shadows plastered to the walls with tears and untold secrets. Here is where my bodily obsessions reside. Not one minute do I lie here and not hold myself back from reaching for the scale. From clawing my way to the mirror and analyze the newest stretch mark or additional fat roll to inhabit my body rent free. I sit in a pool of dried blood from the last time I cut myself. Too overwhelmed and unprepared to deal with my past trauma. No one knows where one problem ends and the other begins. But at least it's here, curled up in a dark room with the smell of bile lingering from the trash can that I have control. Out there, under the blinding fluorescents, people can see my flaws through my concealer and rip them open. They can create more problems, control my life in an attempt to find answers to why the hell they let their life lead to this. At least on the scratchy rugs, doused in blood and tears, I'm alone. I'm safe. I'm in control of the pain I cause myself. I make the decision to mark up my body with something else besides stretch marks. I can confide in the certainty of numbers on the low battery scale. I can see my life fall apart at the seams, and know I'm the one pulling the thread lose.