Home Sweet Hell

It takes just a few hours before I start feel myself suffocating. When I was younger and we used to go on holiday I would adore coming back to this house. I loved driving through the village and up the driveway and dashing upstairs into my room. But at some point this must have stopped. I think it was when I moved away. I tasted freedom and the future. It was sugary, addictive and slipped into my heart. Often my feet begin to itch and I dream of faraway places, but I always doubt if I would cope. Yet, every minute I spend in this four walls, I know I won't just cope, I will love.

I won't spend much time here over summer, I'll see my brother and maybe some friends but I will strive to hide from those who take their hands and put them in the swirling mass of my thoughts and just mix them all up. They wrap fingers around my heart and squeeze, until parts of it become bulbous through the gaps between each finger and then stretches so thin you can see each silver scar.

Often I speak of my scars itching, craving metal and often I speak of the pieces that make me up which lie all over the floor. But rarely do I say that, somehow, someday, I will learn to sew and stitch each piece together until it forms a haphazard but whole picture of a girl I once knew.

I always do certain things just to rebel. I will soon be doing something that may be seen as a rebellion and a large one at that but it isn't. This thing is simply the start of learning to sew. As we all know, you need a needle to sew, but your thread can take many forms. My thread will be ink. Not everytime but definately this time.