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I’m going to write for the sake of writing. Gonna throw some shit out there. See what sticks. Sticks to your ribs sorta stick. Deep, heavy, hangin around kinda feeling. Like you can’t shake it. You keep thinking about it. Sticky in your bones. Filling the gaps. You’re walking down the hallway, minding your own business, and out of nowhere you feel it pulling. That thought. It physically pulls down your body like gravity. You’re heavier all of a sudden. There was nothing that brought the thought on. Nothing triggered it. It triggered itself. Like an entity of its own. Wanting to be gnawed upon. Picked at. Given attention to. But you don’t want to give it attention. You don’t want to gnaw or pick. But oh how it itches and burns to be messed with. The singed ends wanting to be flicked off - so fresh new thoughts can cling to the original. Sticky, goopy, thoughts of darkness. Thoughts you can’t give into. Thoughts you don’t want clinging to your ribs like disease.
But here you are. Fighting the urge to pick at the clinging scabs. You’ll make yourself bleed. You always do. Don’t. Don’t pick. Don’t pull. Don’t scratch. The wounds. On your ribs. They’ll heal. You just have to give it time. They’ll heal. They always do. They always have. You’re still here aren’t you? Then the ones before healed and didn’t kill you, and the ones now will heal and won’t kill you. Let them heal. Don’t pick them. Promise me. Promise me you won’t pick. Promise me you’ll let them heal. I can promise you. I will promise you. My intentions are holy. I want to. I intend to. I will give you my word. Then you’ll turn around and see me ferociously nibbling at the edge of the scab. Disassociated. Not knowing what I’m doing. Just doing it naturally. Without thought. Just doing. I just do. I gnaw and pick without any before thought. Disassociate without before thought. Gone. Don’t hate me because you find me digging around in the thoughts I shouldn’t. Don’t hate me because my intentions fail. Don’t hate me because I do before I think. Don’t hate me please.
Give it one more paragraph. Then share it. Bring it to the orange painted door labeled B and do nothing with. Give it for yourself. Do it for yourself. We’re supposed to want community. We’re supposed to want to help each other. We’re supposed to want to bond with other humans. We’re supposed to want to be a part of the community. That’s why you take it to the orange painted door. That’s why it doesn’t say behind the blue door. With the white stripes. It comes here. To die. To live unknown. To feel like there is some sense of community. Because really I don’t want it. I don’t want to share it. I want to carry it all alone. Because I’m ashamed. It’s ugly. It’s heavy. It’s mine. Who wants to give it away when you can bury it deep and let it rot and fester - MORE FOR YOU TO PICK!
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