By Sophie Ann
I haven’t written, nor thought about doing so, in a month. I can’t say I’m sorry because I’m not. Time away isn’t always easy but my mind’s been too full to fathom words on a page, or a screen.
My hands shake like an alcoholic, yet my alcohol is liquid nerves, worries and unslept nights. My eyes are tired, stained black with my attempts at beauty, trying to hide the layers of sleep deprivation burrowing into my grey skin, my nails are bitten within anxious episodes when at school or home. Or anywhere that caused internal terror in my brain.
My mind flickers from thought to thought with clockwork timing. It circles round and round that same point, the same pin in the works that stops me from achieving the full happiness I should feel for upcoming events and past celebrations. Tick tock. tick tock. The thoughts jitter, mixing into one pile of letters, numbers, like binary code but making no sense.
Backed into a corner
Blind to the plain sight of pain inflicted within, the silent torment stops the smile that could grow. Instead it forces me into my bed, backs me into the corner when I remain to stay in my mind. Isolation drives me to insanity yet a comforting loneliness pleases my soul.
A permanent headache feels like a hangover from life, the constant burden of getting up, getting dressed and getting away from it all. My mind’s still circling, spiralling around that point. The pin in the works that drives me to misspell, misspeak, mistake that sentence and twist it into nothing. It means to stab me in the back and watch the blood run from my own hands, from my own infliction. It turns me insane, it turns me down and down. And down.
It’s like clockwork. One routine my mind completes every single passing day in which it will eventually end all thought processes. Because the blood on my hand will become too much and I won’t be able to forget to write again.
Reproduced with permission, originally posted on insightsofastranger