Sunday, 17 February 2013
01:40:38 AM (GMT)
This room is mine.
The distance between each wall
is the distance between my outstretched arms.
The ceiling to the floor is my height.
The air is warm.
I scream my pain until it turns liquid
and flows out of my ears and eyes and mouth.
I swim, sink, drown, smile underwater,
on my knees I look up and smile submerged.
White walls keep me safe,
I can sleep and cry and scream and smile and laugh.
I can hit my head hard against the walls,
I can paint them with my blood,
I can laugh and laugh and never stop.
But the problem is this room is small,
a small box inside of me.
Inside my chest somewhere near my heart.
I hide here.
Close my eyes and hide inside myself.
Hide in my white walls.
I'm safe here.
Outside is cold.
The cold locks me up.
Outside I'm disgusting, mistakes and messes made, one for every minute.
Inside I'm free to be unafraid, here there are no eyes to hide from,
here I am real and breathing and feeling and me.
Outside I'm half-hollow, mostly broken, and quite cut-up, and people's eyes and
voices drive metal and glass into my spine. They want more than I have.
I hide inside my white walls.