Therapy, Baby

I love Monday. Why wouldn’t I? I’m high.

I love how my thoughts and feelings swirl inside of me, seeping out through my eyes, my lips, my fingertips. The seconds of drawing everything inside of me before exploding in moments of intense clarity. I don’t do this for fun, baby. Well, not just for fun. I do this to maintain my sanity. My own chemical therapy.

I know you judge me. Please do. Feel free. I’m the oh-so-soft clay between your judgmental fingers, weighing me, testing me. Mold me into the person you think I am, the person you think I should be.

Floating out of my body, watching me, observing me, savouring the cool smoke that I inhale and exhale slowly. Ever so slowly. Always so slowly. Muscles tightening and relaxing as I in turn relinquish and regain control of my limbs. Surrendering to the thrum of the music through my veins before breaking free again. Playing with it, licking my lips as I do it. A sip of water to wet me, another cigarette to heat me up. Raising my head, tracing the skin from my jaw to my neck and going further down. And I’m not gonna stop.

I’m the one you can never handle, baby. Simply because I’m me.

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