of nothing in particular

the time has come again

I have lost track of time. I could blame the darkness all I like, but I doubt it could be the sole reason for the ever-slipping hours. Inside my skull I feel myself beginning to forget: who I am, how I feel, what any of it means. It's like the cold has stolen it all away from me. Any reassurance that I once had about the past, present, or future has left a gaping pitfall in my stomach, full of nothing but trepidation. Every step feels all the more precarious than the last, as though at any moment my flesh will unravel itself from my bones and I will lose all control I ever believed that I held.

All I desire is to sleep, and sleep easy, or to be real, so undeniably real that every step feels like soaring. But this space is too small for all the flies buzzing through my mind and instead I become the dissociated figure who's stiff with her words and careless when shielding the scars on her arms. I cannot get the scent out of my nose, even as I sob beneath the pile of stale blankets on my bed. I do not belong on this plane of existence anymore. I do not know if there is one that could accept me, but I am willing to take any chance I get.

I say that now, at least, but god knows if the cycle will always remain unbroken. These winds feel never-ending.