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pot cornbread
It feels warm here. Safe. A cocoon. Silky soft and comfortably vulnerable. Dark like a chocolate is the color that I paint my walls. My anxiety the color of molten seaweed. Total apathy became my answer to being born with too many emotions. Turn them all off at the source and it will be harder to overflow. My eyes turn backward and I can see the inside of my skull. My brain wrapped delicately in strands of endlessly intricate discarded memory. A soft breeze blows through my brainwaves. Not warm or cool. Like porridge. Just absolutely fucking right. It feels so good to be home. It's almost happiness to have a place where I feel I can truly be.
8:54 AM - Tuesday, May. 08, 2012
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