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When I was a child, I built an entire fortress made of all of my bullshit around me to keep people out. It’s vaste and big. With hundreds of rooms, nooks and crannies, entire fields bearing the oppressing smelling bullshit flowers or the hollow sounds of devastation. There’s even an ocean of bullshit and drama.
I built it so well, it took me years to realized I was trapped between those walls, no longer raised to keep people out but to keep me in. I didn’t make a fortress as much as a jailI don’t remember how to be honest now. Not with anyone let alone myself. Maybe I’ve never been.
There’s an ocean of sorrow inside me.
I don’t hate life Mom, it’s something inside of me that I can’t stand.