I keep on saying, “I’m not ready.” My story isn’t ready. That it’s still jumbled in my head… I myself don’t always recognize it. So the pages continue to be blank. White. Lines. White. Fading.
I’m not sure what I’m waiting for.
These days, I’m just growing unsure, more unsure.
So many stories are swimming in my head. I wonder which ones are mine.
Sometimes I could tell which is mine to tell, other times not.
I may have got it bad.
Sometimes I’m sick of being sane, of living within the confines of “normal.”
I died but I don’t remember dying. If I close my eyes, I get to see the floor, the spit, my dangling feet. I am hanging, gasping for air, writhing, struggling against the growing tightness of the rope against my neck.
I don’t remember dying.
But I knew what I had done… who I killed this time.
**image by Evan Kirby