The air around me is growing staler with each breath I take. These scents, I know them so well that I cannot smell them. I am numb due to familiarity. My soil is spent, sucked of nutrients and my roots crave fertile ground.

Transplant me.


My heart and soul are nearing their bursting points. These rooms and voices and inescapable surroundings remind me too constantly of all that I am trying to escape. To live a life running is not what I dream of, but I will never be able to face these nightmares until I can walk away for awhile and collect my thoughts. I feel crushed and breathless inside of my dreams, my waking hours are pages upon pages scribed utter gibberish that I'll never reread on leafs of acid-free archival paper bound by a butterfly that never had wings. Last night I cried behind a locked door to an empty room. Loudly and freely. But instead of cleansing the act was unsettling, as if from my body the last of my childhood and the last of my naivety were falling. I felt less complete and more unsure. Embarrassed by my violently intense emotions and my inability to control myself. I felt alone. Glad to be hidden. I felt the cold I've been accepting as reality flow in.