hot boxed and sick stained and ripping out pieces of myself

Oh what you'd never guess. To stand and scream still feel blessed. The darkness seeps from between my teeth. No not some emo fuck crying about the dripping red lines and razor blades. The bitter festering feeling stirring up inside like a dust storm in nevada. I'm talking about the dust bowl. The fight against the inevitable. The soul crushing feeling of sitting anywhere and still feel like you're sinking.

The music doesn't cause it. It illuminates it. Better to see when you fight or think you're fine and allow the ninja stalker to slink up and slit your neck. There's about to be a new sheriff in town. I didn't shoot the last one, but I did the deputy.

The way my hair stands after a night of great sleep. I have burning ambitions about to shoot from my fingers. And I'll never give up. I'll rebuild myself as many times as I have to until it's perfect. Because when the storm ends and I'm still standing and the scars have changed my appearance you'll know me from that first step. It's not confidence. It's something more. It's not to believe, but to know. To have taken that step countless times. A silence. Then a heavy bass note. Because no one should be able to survive what I will. Because my ability to take it is my super power. I've been eroded down to a splinter and have come back. Always stronger.

Just wait for it. I can already hear the winds of the storm dying down. Maybe I have lost that shine in my eye. But I gave it up to weather the storm. And maybe some part of my enjoys it. Not the pain, but the acknowledgement after.