She's back

Stop. Don't start; it's too late for that. I'm no longer inside this chamber called my heart full of blood and tension. I've broken out and free and lying awake in a bed no longer satisfies my hunger. I've walked so far and I haven't even moved a step. A moment and a stride were all but lifesaving from this juvenile lover. My veins are itching and pulsing and moving but not with red and white blood cells, but a voice I can call my own. I've unstrapped myself from the torture chamber I can understand as progress. No sense or defense. I'm vulnerable like a tree in the sunlight constantly reflecting such strikes and wounds. Still fighting.

Months and maybe I've lost it. But what is it? That motion notion you call creativity that drowned under a traveling heart and possibly needs resuscitation. I think I need to stop writing about me. It's not me I fear for. Only the rest of the world. That's a lie; I care for me and what affect my actions will have on my future. Because my future affects so terribly that hiding it wasn't even going to do the trick.

The world has fallen all the way down to this. A moment where they wonder why is this youth of a brain so alone but also withholding satisfaction of being full. I'm breathing in air too cold for my chest and humidity that will sweat my skin to its withered end I know will come.

I've done and listened to all I need and I have no fears. For after all, there's nothing to fear in this spinning mass we call home. Oh wait.

It's me