It's almost like flashbacks. I feel like I'm not allowed to experience that type of shit if I haven't been in some type of a war. But for years now, I've been in a war with myself. With my mind. My body.
One thought will lead to another and it's like I'm back in that same spot I was in years ago.
My mind tells me, "We're back at square one, so you better pick up that blade. Make sure we really are starting over."
No.
Everyone seems to struggle with their heart but I seem to struggle with my mind.
My hands following through with commandments to rip its own body open. I have to remind myself that "we do not find comfort in blood". That "you'll regret this right after. Then again in ten minutes. Then thirty. Then it's by the hour. By the day. You still feel guilty for the last one on your shoulder from three years ago".
It gets better with time, but by now I'm tallying the days down on the wall.
How much longer?
How much longer will I be in this prison?
YOU ARE READING
The Swallows and the Sunsets
PoetryI tend to find meanings in things not intended to have one.
