I clench my jaw as my fingernails scratch the surface.
A white wall darkened by instances that were meant to be felt, but were not.
My nails make no mark.
No chip in the non-existent paint that wasn't used to hide imperfections.
I would pound at the mocking whiteness, but my fists are already bloodied and bruised, useless.
I think I should scream and cry at the injustice, inevitability, frustration, and fear.
But they would just laugh at me from the other side.
So instead I turn away from the wall, only to be greeted by three more.
For a moment, a smile plays at my lips, then vanishes just as quickly.
The irony does not escape me.
I created this place of protection from feeling..and now I have become it's prisoner.
What is there left to do now but wait?

Question is...
When you find this place of mine and open the door...will I still be here?