i write and i write and ill keep writing to scratch out the feeling even if i didn't want to i wish i could personify it and have a conversation with it. but its just a complicated concoction of animalistic instincts stuffed crassly into an anthropological lens. how much of it is my fault. i've spent years pondering over it. why won't i work, where is home. why wouldn't my body stop hurting. why do i want to ruin the beautiful things in my life. why did they hit me when i was a kid ? was the mistakes i made so grave. i know for a fact i wasn't born flawed. it feels like these internalisations are like eschar over these decade old wounds. it hurts to peel it off but it makes me ugly and immobile. im scared of what might hurt me again when the raw tender skin is exposed. especially without the conditioning of the sun