Sheets wrap around limbs
skin of claws
shredding curtains off the walls,
vile curtains, wooden floors.
I’m doing cartwheels
over your red raw hands,
and digging my heels
into disappearing sand.
I asked, keep me silent and keep me safe don’t smother me in the dark
I’m beginning to think I am not real, and that every self-judgment is only a small projection of my fear of existing. All of me could be disproved. And even if my body was real, it would only be there so my mind would have something to float in. However I think maybe it’s too easy to feel solipsistic for the small sake of ignoring everything else.
