I write.
I write because it’s easier than holding everything inside. Easier than wanting to claw my nails into my heart at any moment.
Sometimes I feel as if I was designed to hold everything together under any circumstance, just as perfect as Noah’s ark survived any environmental condition.
Just bottling up every prejudicial feeling. Feelings he says are “normal” but we both know they aren’t.
Something inside of me is screaming for help, but I don’t know what type of help she wants. She’s either trying to save me or kill me, it’s all a fucked up Russian Roulette of emotional bullets.
I always thought somebody could help me. A naive 16 year old me thought her blue prince could just save her with ‘love’. But she realised she was dragging him inside that ark too.
Because after all he is no magic blue prince. He is human.
And she’s contagious.
