I want to write about what I want to write about.
So why cant I?
Fear my husband will see it and get pissed off?
Fear a potential recruiter or employer will see it and not hire me?
If I write about a socially unacceptable subject, but write about it well, does that count for something?
There is solace in anonymity. There is a warmth, a safety.
But still, there is something here that needs to spill.
Something here that has needs of its own, that needs to be outside of me for once.
These dark thought occupy my mind even on the best of days.
Left over pieces of incoherent memories that lay like stagnant debris on dark still waters.
A spawning monster of self devices..tearing through a womb of glass
And yet, here I am, not writing about it. I am writing about not writing about it.
Will it make me sane if I can relieve myself of this? Of these decaying thoughts?
Of this contamination?
I dont need to be saved from this broken world.
I need to be saved from myself.
That is the real offender.
The real prison warden.
The criminal, the master mind, the king pin.
She is in the mirror.
She cries alone and reaches out of the darkness.
But still outlines the plot, still makes up the ending of the fairytale.
Why? Why cant I escape these self made restraints? This bondage?
This broken mind and perfectly sculpted reality?
There is a place here, much like soft earth...
strapped with leather cuffs and thick metal.
wound tightly around my heart, my mind
there is nothing worse than self contamination
than a one sided mutilation
than not being able to catch my freaking breath.