I have been looking through old journals and came across this..
This was my mind set, quite a few years ago, a lot has changed and so have I, but I though it might be wise to share...
She feels safe here. Safer here than anywhere else. Because Outside… Outside there’s uncertainty. There’s danger, and risk, and instability. She never knows what’s going to happen Outside. But here… here, in this white-tiled haven, she’s got everything she needs.
The people Outside– they think she’s so strong. And she is. She speaks with a purpose, moves with precision. She never lets anything faze her. They just don’t know. They don’t know how much stronger she can be when she is here.
She sits here for hours. Here, she’s an artist, and her body is her canvas.
She pens her story in maudlin simplicity. She writes angrily in lurid strokes on her arms, watching in fascination as her drama comes to life. Her handwriting makes serrations on her broken flesh, her words creating her gory setting. She craves the control. She delights in the coloured strength she coaxes out, the darkness she creates. Her brush dips into puddles of liquid glory, and she gently draws them into sorrowful streams. And it hurts– it hurts like hell, but she knows what she’s doing.
It isn’t long before her weakness spills forth, and she lets it. She cries, and as she cries, her tears roll off her cheeks, turning blood red as it touches her skin. She quiets, and her tears hum their own melody. And when it’s over, she smiles.
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