My leg itches. It itches and itches and itches. It’s a deep itch, as if there’s something stuck so deep inside that I can’t scratch it out. My legs are pale and dry because they itch and itch and itch. All day and all night. It’s gotten worse in the last few days,. I got in one of my moods today. Those moods in which I feel like I’m the water that’s already going down the drain. It’s that drink I had, maybe, it brings it out. The itch. I should know better and it pisses me off that I’m still making the same mistakes I made at 15. I’ve been getting lost in my thoughts all day all week all year. It frightens me that people keep saying these things, so many things, and I have absolutely no idea what they’re saying. Maybe it’s the timer, the fucking timer, it has me running in circles. The end is near and I need it to be here already. I need to breathe. I need to breathe like you do when you open a window and this breeze comes in and just takes over for a second. Music makes me breathe but music doesn’t last forever and if god did exist I’d put him in hell for how fleeting that breeze is.
Everything itches in this house. And you scratch and scratch and scratch until there’s blood and then there are pools of blood and suddenly you’re drowning in yourself and this happens over and over and over again. There’s no fucking crystal or incense or therapist or psychiatrist that can make it stop and it still pisses me off after all these years. I want to be free but people take it away from me. No, that’s a lie, it’s not the people, we’re all tied up with the same ropes. There’s no way out, though. That’s the trap. It’s your life and it’s in your hands but your hands can only do so much and they’re tied up in everything society has led you to be. And I scratch and scratch and scratch it and it bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and it goes on and on and so on while Rhiannon is taken by the wind and oh god how easily I’d kill to be her.
unpleasant conversations 