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  • my only security in my wobbly teenage lifestyle seems to be the 40 square feet that belongs solely to me. while mirrors serve as satanists in my mind's broken image of beauty, this dark atmosphere provides more than comfort to my bloody hands and dirty feet.

    I always wanted a place I could crawl into, somewhere I could escape to. but I never needed an escape until I had something to run from. I never needed to run away from life until its existence was as blistered as my palms. its existence was smoother than newborn earlobes until every imperfect piece of its puzzle shattered into an array of sharp pseudo-shapes.

    my security swung from a catchy melody to a disgusting depression faster than any emotion had ever arrived and departed my empty fascination.

    the only comfort left in my physical dwelling was to embrace my emotions in hand-made crafts and recycled bedding. pictures of laughter and splintered church window panes blanketed my pale walls and a sense of security overwhelmed my brokenness.

    my loneliness bullies my jealousy, and my woolen emotions fall asleep, hoping to dream something less horrifying than my awakened shapes.
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