I scraped the inside of my hand coming down to xeno, I guess I grabbed a fucking branch the wrong way or something. It's nothing too serious, but one of the scrapes lies on the crease of my palm and it kinda burns and itches when I write.
I'm sitting on a rock of course. I don't do much down here. I have to piss but I'll hold it for a while. I know there's nobody else down here with me, but I still get the feeling I'm being watched. Maybe the trees are watching me, maybe all the damn birds I'm hearing, I don't exactly know but maybe I'm paranoid. I've got the song "Positively 4th Street" stuck in my head. It's by Bob Dylan in case you didn't know it. I've got a feeling in my chest/throat it's making me cry a little. I get these unexpected feelings of sadness sometimes; I don't even know what the fuck I'm sad about. But I'm doing better. I haven't cut myself in three weeks. I still know where my blade is hidden, I just haven't touched it. I hope I don't, you know, I've been cutting on and off for about six years now and I'm tired of it. I just want to be happy one day but that's hard because I want all the things I can never have. Sometimes I think to myself that you're one of them, but I don't know. Maybe I'm lying. I lie all the time. Well no I know. What I want. I just never tell anybody.
I think you're supposed to be coming down here soon but I'm not sure. Whenever I see you I never greet you how I want to. I pretend to be indifferent sometimes.
My hand still burns. The trains are loud. The wind makes loud noise. Everything is so loud down here. I like to pick at the moss on the rocks sometimes. I'm not really cold but I'm shivering real bad.
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@desolationrow
I dig Bob Dylan. // I'm not a fucking poet. My brain just likes to throw up sometimes.
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