There’s an intelligent forcefield waiting for me at the threshold of my front door, it casts a repelling magnetisation from the world, pressurising self-containment inside the prison of my home.
I’ve flirted with madness, snuck a few of his cigarettes but these brief interactions were always somewhat respectful one-night stands, everyone returning to their assigned places once the sun began to rise again. The rules have changed.
I’ve been listening intently to the rhythm of the breathing beside me for hours. I count, calculate, triple check, make sure the breaths signal deep slumber and not just the mere pretence of it. I feel the firm bed of carpet beneath me as I roll painstakingly slowly onto my side, my heart thundering in my ears and I pray it isn’t loud enough to wake the monster sleeping in the bed beside me. (click image to view full post)
A child, who had only been taught by the outside world that he was expected to fall and become the darkness he was raised in, slowly began learning that the only way to build himself out of the life he had found himself in was to rise, and to shine.
I'm fourteen and still spending time in the hallway of my residential unit almost every night, petrified and alone, waiting for the safety of morning to come so I can retreat back to my room and try to sleep. (Click image to read post)
A short piece about my experience in the first foster home I went to after my mother died. This is a pretty heavy one. (Click image to view the post)
In 2007 I was living in a pretty stock standard residential unit, a purpose built house filled with locks and a pervasive sense of darkness. (Click image to read more)