My house was made of egg shells
Were the signifier of the property
The βwarm embraceβ of home
My feet callused and my skin thickened, my body was adapting
The Wounds began to feel like a part of me
As I grew, my flesh became fractured like cracked mud
Over time the shells had broken me in
Id expected to enjoy the solace
But thatβs the thing about pain
The chemicals indisposed me
I was a seasoned masochist
And the carpets in my northern inner-city apartment felt like daggers
And when I stepped foot into their residence I felt like I was home
The fragments of shells pierced my feet again
The injuries were familiar and soothing
Fortifying my internalised lesson
that pain was a mandatory condition in the terms and agreement of emotional security
Merely βcollateral damageβ
I was completely rendered unsighted to the extent of my physical injuries
Let alone my intangible ones
In my mind, safe must mean happy
then it must be what I need
The thought of leaving was scary
therefore it must be what I deserve
The contiguity between the pain and reassurance was my structure
Eventually I sustained so much damage
That I had no choice but to leave
It was maybe one of the hardest decisions of my life
But I chose the imperceptible yet terrifying path of healing
it took me too many years to figure out
That all I had to do was take the time
to adjust to the polished wooden floors
Iβm pretty damn certain it saved my life
prguitarman
romaincrisis
theartofmadeline
2087
vaporwave
