Processing

The feelings don’t ever crash into me. It’s always gnawing doubt, clawing and roiling beneath the surface.  I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, in through my nose, out through my mouth as I whisper “fuck,” and “I hate you,” and “please just let me go.” I try to find the magic in life and I listen to the trees, praying that the leaves will comfort my swollen and rotten mind. Little warrior, they call me as I cower in the darkest parts of myself and try to escape your insidious grip, your toxic breath. I can feel the branches weeping off their bark as they try to pull me to the sky, scraping my skin and peeling my lungs from my chest. Little warrior, little warrior, they cry and cry and cry and suddenly I’m gone and my dead eyes stare at nothing and I embrace the sweet respite of hatred. I let my anger fuel me and I tune out their weeping. I don’t let the magic within me out. I hold it dangerously tight and close to my chest and guard my trees, my sky, my earth. You can’t have them. I won’t let you. We’ll protect you, little warrior. We’ll keep him away and in the dark. He won’t ever know what you do, he won’t ever get the chance. But only for you, cruel little warrior, our own little warrior.

[Written October 27th, 2016]

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