sometimes it’s like I’m a few different people in one
I know the calm me exists, the one who feels fine, who feels in control, who can experience comfort, laugh, and be kind
but she’s not here all the time,
who I am at the moment
isn’t someone new
but someone old
when I look around my room I don’t recognise my things
I don’t recognise my own body or face
and there’s a desperation to awaking in here
like I don’t have much time left to be this person
and this person feels everything so much more extremely, overwhelmingly
manically
that it feels like ‘the real me’
and maybe a rational part of me knows, objectively, that this isn’t true, but I don’t feel it
and nothing really matters except how you feel
I feel dark
chaotic, to the core of myself
I want to reach through my ribs and carve my own heart out with a spoon
I blame everyone else for letting this out
but it’s past me to blame, the weaker version of myself, the fake one consumed by uni and total entertainment and ignorance of the fire that has burned under my skin for centuries
this is what it feels like to be alive
this roiling crash of the sea in my lungs and the desire to bury myself so deep into the earth that I can feel my bones breaking and skewering me from the inside out
deep red sheets and knives in bed side tables and the rock of the water and the way the cold makes my skin feel real and foggy rivers that appear to disappear and screaming in an empty house and nails in skin and crying over shoulders and feet burning on the black tar we poured over the soft soil to suffocate any inch of life that the sun could seek to spark
the only time it feels good to be alive is in the goldwater
that 20 minutes
shadows on golden grass too
