Bury Your Fucking Secrets

I’m not here. You see that girl? She’s not me. Just flesh and bones and blood and tears, not a girl. No. Not really.
I’m not really here. I’m at home. I’m in my room and it’s Spring. It’s warm in here and I’m playing a record. I still have the bunkbed I don’t appreciate. I’m playing a record and laying on my bunkbed that I don’t appreciate, trying to read the lyrics to the song before “The Guns of Brixton,” but I’m too tired and the seduction of my fluffy white blanket is too great. It’s so soft and comfy and smells like childhood. The yellow incandescent light from the sun through the closed shade is warm and comforting. I close my eyes and succumb to the sounds of the Clash and my breath and I drift to sleep. I’m not here, I’m there. I’m warm and happy. So happy that I want to cry. I just want to cry, leak emotion. I think about where I am. Where I really am, not this place. I think until it hurts and then I think some more. Until I’m numb. If I think hard enough, as hard as I can, I might just slip away, slowly fading to nothing. . .