but i wasn't.
i sit here
in the dark.
in the folds of the quilts.
and i rock backwards and forwards in my despicable safety.
mortified by my freedom.
'they grabbed me by each arm'
i lift my arms to my face. and breathe air freely into my lungs.
i run my fingers through my hair, to find the best place to pull at it. to try and drag some clear thoughts to the surface. my eyes squint- narrowing to try to pull me back to the room I was in. i curl up and i spin around and around and around in sheets and in quilts and in desperation and in futility and confusion and in frustration.
I listen to music to try to tear my guts out. to try to wrench tears out of my stubborn eyes. The heat of the quilt burns my skin tonight because it is soft to touch. and blades are not.
There is no sleep. There is none there to be had.
because this is not about me.