When all you can hope to do is breathe but your lungs are coated in dusty exhaustion that sleep cannot cease, it seems self-sabotage is the only relief on the way to salvation. The subconscious knows what we cannot begin to admit. If admittance were deemed an admirable feat perhaps becoming a being with meaning would be worth it. What is worth in the grand scheme of things? A preconceived notion society intervenes in on to determine the depth of a person. Our pain is only allowed to go skin deep, anything deeper gets swept under a political rug until dust bunny demons come out to haunt us. Mental illness is not being fixed until we are each given the right to embrace it.

This entry was posted in prose.

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