This is where you write.
This is where you bury the demons. Or let them escape. Or slay them.
I don’t want to cry, I’m tougher than that. Right? But I cry. Then I can’t stop crying which allows my friend Panic to stomp on my chest. It really is me. I fuck up people. I hold them outside my “pristine” space. I think I love fiercely but it is never good enough for the person I love.
Then I walk. Thunder around me, down sinister alleys, behind busy taverns, through the rain, hoping the storm would take away my internal storm, walk to breathe, walk to quiet my brain, sob and walk, I don’t want to feel this, I don’t want to feel like this, I don’t want to think about what’s wrong with me.
Walking isn’t helping. I need to hit something.
My Hayabusa gloves beckon me. My desire to feel outside pain seems to come back round after round. My gloves hang on a chain around a decorative, delicate white wire bust, looking hardcore in their black and purple perfection, a metaphor for my existence.
The gloves call out, “Slip your hand into me, strap me around your wrist, and feel the controlled power. Smash me.” A voice so classy above the ruckus of a dark wave crashing around me. The gloves speak the truth; they will protect me from myself.
If I put them on.
But I didn’t.
Days clean: Zero.
It was exactly as I remembered. The bright pain, the dark red, the ability to catch my breath.
I remember exactly why I can’t go down that path again.
This is where you write. This is where you bleed. This is your safe place.