losing touch, losing faith, losing myself.
I get lost inside my own mind.
Popping bubble wrap.
Each pop making me jump.
Locks on the doors, but I still hear them creaking.
There's the sound of one opening, but when I turn around to look, it's still locked.
There's writing on the walls,
A scribe of god, my own subconscious.
A ghost of a memory, flickering and haunting.
Pop goes the bubble wrap, and the door creaks again.
Where did the lock go?
Pop. Creak. The door slips open.
An image flickers across my vision, and I could've sworn I'd seen it before.
Faded and distorted, wrapped up in bubble wrap.
Shoved into a box. Left in the attic. Dust covered and discarded.
It doesn't look the same anymore.
I don't look the same anymore.
I pretend not to notice, but there's a stranger in the attic.
A stranger in this room.
A stranger in my mind.
YOU ARE READING
The diary of Seth Alexander
PoesíaI write to cope with life, so maybe this might help someone else cope too, idk. Trigger warning for suicidal ideation, S/A, and Abuse. There's not many mentions of them directly as this is more about my emotions and moments of reflection, all neatl...
