My mind is a forsaken battlefield riddled with the aftermath of the war I wage against demons that linger in the fog. There is a minute’s reprieve in moments I stop and lick the blisters on the hands that allow me to hold on for life.
Funny how you would like to believe you have healed from everything that wounded you only to find in the middle of the night, in between the pauses and idle time, that the scars are still there — red, indented, throbbing.
There is no rest in dreams. The light dims as I succumb to the call of slumber. What nightmares await me under the heavy blanket of REM sleep?
The onus is on me. Damsels need not be in distress. It does not serve protagonists to linger in the excruciating realm of the known, but the road that ventures into the promise of uncertainty is lost in a haze of salty tears and unfounded hope. I no longer wish to live in the bog, but that is where the familiar thrives.
Where is the lie? Where is the truth? Who am I if I am not this?