#scribble log

“How are you?”

Better. I mean, the whispers aren’t clawing my mind so often. Like, that flat-lining static in my heart oozed back into whatever pit it rises from. Food has taste. The shoulder twitching, lip gnawing, heart hammering midnight fear bled off, you know.  

“It’ll be ok.”

Lol, yeah. Just chemical changes in the circuitry of my brain. Stress. Hormones. Genetic predisposition. Shitty self-esteem. I know, I know, I have a degree in this. Not that it makes it easier, crouched on a bathroom floor with panic in my lungs, salt-stung eyes . You can never learn your way out of being human. Trust me, I’ve tried.

“You don’t have to go through it alone.”

Sure. So I can see it bow my mom’s shoulders, the blame of my brokenness settle there. Think I’ll stick with oscillating between spouting insecurities and shutting myself in a pleasantry padded box--so good with friends, aren’t I. Just peachy with my lover, explaining how to breathe like they volunteered for nurse duty. Yeah, in that state I know I am arsenic poisoning, slow and steady. Limit your exposure, I want to say. We all have edges and mine are jagged, but what harm is a knife without something to cut.

“I forgive you.”