I rise every morning to the view of mountains,
An instant homage to my freedom,
An image presented by little angels-
Whispy curtains hovering by my window.
The sun slinks across my bed and demands embrace,
Humbling me to another time,
To night so long
I thought I'd never again be kissed by warmth.

The fan blows quietly and aged snored murmur in the corner. 

The window is open and I dont mind

The sounds of lives, buzzing outside. 

I can almost hear how soft my blankets are as I lay upon them,

Warm light from a low place illuminates mountains around me. 

We are safe.

We are home.

Calm doesn't work for me
Because when I am still,
I climb the walls of my mind
Like I tear at my skin
And pick at my fingers. 

If I'm not having fun, I'm just slowly dying.

Surrounded by mirrors in some ******* hotel room -
I just wanted a bed.

I wasn't planning on sleeping with 
50 copies of my worst enemy.

Freedom is
A wooden floor with a nest of blankets
And snuggling up to the baseboards
To keep my pride warm.

I punched my reflection, square in the jaw
And she showed me who I really am.

It's always blown me away how people can sleep with a sweatshirt on -
That burns me up,
Chokes me.

It wasn't until now,
Now that I sleep alone in the dead of winter,
Desperately trying to be my own best friend,
Doing my best to hold myself together,
That I've realized
The more layers I wear,
The longer it should take for me to fall completely apart.