Some days I am brimming with creativity. I find myself absolutely riveting. Thoughts carelessly trying to all jump out of my frontal lobe at once and land onto my fingertips. Their order isn’t significant, just that they fill up a white blank box. This box mirrors who I want to be, how I want to feel. This box contains the things I can’t bare to keep contained in myself. I don’t like to sit with thoughts and feelings. Feelings can burn through me like a wildfire, eating up every decent or pleasant perception I’ve ever had.
Currently my chest is tightening, my fingers curling up with fabricated pain. My eyes start to squint and I clench my jaw till my teeth hurt. I told myself not to be anxious today. I told myself not to let my agitation get the better of me. I told myself to relax.
Funny, I don’t think I’ve ever been the definition of relaxed in my life. I’m falling faster into a chasm of self pity and self loathing. I am no good. I can’t create. No one cares to hear what senseless musings your damaged brain spawns. It’s bull shit. It’s boring. You’re boring.
I thought getting this out would cleanse my clamored mind, but here I am with my veins tense and my heart pounding. I wish I could control myself and how my anxieties manifest. Tuck my hatred for myself deep into my heart so it could live happily festering away at my anatomy until I fall apart from the inside out. Then no one could say I did it to myself. No one could blame me.
Such a shame, the poor girl just decomposed and no one saw it coming.