this understuffed bed in my stomach is capable of containment because it is a forest of redwood fluttering with bats, slithering with snakes, and crawling with panthers. it is an expansive house that is mostly empty, always rented out, people crossing the threshold of my comfort zone as if the door to my life is a ******* welcome mat, everyone seemingly feigning ignorance to the existantial crisis in my stomach that is like a world war three. people ask me why i have anxiety. well, they're the same ones who cuts down the forest of redwoods and turns the ending result of the paper into origami, and they watch the way my skin begins to imprint a crease that stays. they're the same ones who don't notice that the redwoods are my pillars, just like how bones and atoms are building blocks. cautiously, you knocked on the door to my comfort zone, and opened the door when I allowed you to come in. you are a natural green thumb, planting trees where others cut them down, mending the creases in the paper to the best of your ability. you prevented me from going extinct, from these localized fires becoming forest fires, and gave life to the empty gray parts of myself.
- kra
take me back to how we used to be i'll never close my eyes again how could i ever forget a place like this, somewhere that i could call my own?