I have torn at my hair a little more than I should in the past hour, desperately attempting to pluck each thought from my head. My braids are in a bundled mess.
I winced in pain when my hand successfully yanked out a loose braid, ripping out a chunk of my hair along with it. At least, I got something right.
My mind constantly runs ahead of me and I feel powerless to stop it. It wages war against my soul and losing seems like the only option available to me. And these knives on my bed? I need them and they need me.
I have not stepped out in months. My soul, I mean. My soul has not stepped out in months. My outsides? Perfect.
I often wonder what the other side of life looks like. Today I want to find out.
I know I’m crazy. I mean, who wants to die so much that they are already dead on the inside?
“Lunatic” is what Law calls me.