It Pretends
It Pretends It feels like comfort, like a warm room in winter— soft, familiar. It feels like home. A place I run to when the world is too sharp. But sometimes— it feels like a severed arm, bleeding endlessly, yet no one sees the wound. The blood is invisible. So is the pain. They ask how I am. I smile. I lie. I can’t feel it. But I do. In echoes. In shadows. In the weight of things I can’t name. Sometimes it crashes through me like a broken dam— flooding everything. Drowning reason. Sometimes, it is grotesque, twisted and raw. Other times, it’s a painting— chaotic, but still beautiful. Sometimes it rhymes. Sometimes it burns. It rages in colors I don’t have names for. It builds cages I can't escape, even when the door is open. It drags me to rock bottom, then lifts me to cloud nine, only to remind me that the fall is always waiting. Sometimes it feels like mine— a truth I cradle like a secret. Other times, I feel like a stranger to it, like it's ...