It feels as if there is a hollowed out place in my ribcage full of dead and rotting things.
Fleeting memories, lost love, and something resembling empathy have long since crumbled and lay scattered in the sticky, black mess in my chest.
My bones feel heavy with the weight of a life that I can’t quite remember. Lights dimly flicker in dark rooms that I don’t look into anymore for fear of awakening something.
I watch the clock tick off the seconds until I can finally escape the life I have been imprisoned in. I asked my mother once if Earth was Hell. She never answered.
I might not have said it aloud. I might not of said it at all. Maybe I never said it at all.
Maybe I was just taking to the demon that sits outside my window every night when all is dark and silent. There is a place people call home. They say they feel safe there.
I don’t know what they mean. I don’t understand the word. It’s foreign on my tongue. Home. Safety doesn’t make sense to me, but I don’t know why. The demons smile. I keep going.
The clock keeps ticking. Someone is watching me. I maybe this doesn’t make sense, but I have no intention of making anyone else understand.
But if you understand what I say need not question and those who question need not understand. That’s how I see it. The demon is still smiling. I can feel it’s eyes on me.