I wrote this after work yesterday (creative stream of consciousness/journal entry)

I’m not myself. It’s like the skin has been peeled away entirely, leaving exposed muscle and nerves and fragile bones. A simple gust of wind and I feel it all over, rubbing against tight strings of ligament barely holding me together.

I ache.

How long have I been like this? As fragile as a glass building, begging to be destroyed. Did I ask for this? With my wishing and wanting, thinking and fearing? Perhaps.

Where did I leave my pile of skin? Who helped me pick at the edges of my being, revealing vulnerable layers beneath? Can I sew myself back together again, with magic string and good intentions?

There are no fairy godmothers here.

No white prince atop a white horse coming to save me. I’d probably miss him if he did. I’m blind to what’s best for me, when it is wrapped in a pretty package – too good to be true. How can I trust the things that look like monsters to me? You see a prince, I see a python, ready to wrap it’s tail around me. Tighter, tighter, until I crack; bone by bone, becoming dust…