I’ve just convinced myself that I’m actually going to seriously write something….
I have blood in my finger nails. It’s dry, so the luster of red that it once had has turned.
Now a brown, cracked, flaking color remains. Anxiety has taken over and my skin lays
in ruins on the floor. For the discerning reader, please do not take this as a shedding of skin.
But more of a habit to occupy the mind that never talks. Who’s sleep is rare, and who
sits and is convinced it’s equilibrium is off. I feel as if an arm has reached into my chest, but
refuses to take anything. The being just smirks and watches me as my body twists in pain.
Knowing that comfort is in this pain. As a blanket of blood runs down the front, and warms
my soul. Yet I too smile along, holding back bile. A sadistic life that many call home, and
refuse to acknowledge.
This is usually the part of the story where it would turn.
Not this time. It’s not just right yet.