Brain dump

I find it hard to display my mind’s mess on a canvas, so writing has been put off for months now. I weep internally and soak my organs. My lashes never wet. My beating heart is drowning in tears that are saltier than the sea. Pickled heart. One that’s been broken and repaired only a handful of times. A delicacy for the rich.

I dream of open doors, keeping my anxiety at bay. Doors that shouldn’t be open. During a private act, these doors won’t shut; exposing me to strangers. Exposing vulnerabilities. Exposing my hot skin and terrified eyes. Mouth agape and sweat beating down. Someone take care of this for me. Do you know a guy who has some extra locks? Extra hinges? Can someone glue this door shut so I can get a moment of peace? So I can look myself In the mirror and scream in peace? Can I just scream in peace?

The psychological warfare that my deteriorating brain has to face on a daily basis is causing too much harm to fix. Can we fix the harm we inflict on ourselves? Can we even fix ourselves? Can, for one fucking minute, I get a hold of myself? Can I hear myself? ME. Not you, Anxiety. Not you, Overwhelm. No. Not you, Overstimulation. And especially not you, Dissociation. I don’t want to hear any of you speak anymore. A choir of poison. A pack of hunting wolves. Bleeding from their gums from biting too damn hard. I wish there was a way around this crowd; this toxic, manipulative crowd. “They’re trying to keep you safe”, my therapist has said. But, what’s so safe about staying in a box that’s wet, withered, punctured? I’m toxic by default. I’m overflowing with worry. Too many bad things are consistent. Too much time has passed to break these cold conditions. I don’t know when I heard myself last, for doubt always seems to conquer.