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?