There’s light in the windows, but I’ll shutter it all out. I will stay in here as long as it takes to pull myself together. I will rebuild myself from the bottom up. I will be made of brick instead of straw. This room can be a prison or a haven depending on the hour. The clock ticks away, indifferent to the girl curled up in her bed. I can hide beneath my sheets for days as long as I say, “I’m fine, it’s just a cold.” As long as your functioning, no one cares quite enough.
Tagged as: writing. prose. thoughts. inebriation. mental illness.