Sane

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the ocean still beckons,
as do the blades in my kitchen and the bleach next to the washing machine and my grandpa’s rainbow pills but
most times, I cling onto the nearest distractions and the suffocation looses it’s grip on my mind – momentarily – and manages to fight for room, pushing the thoughts that trigger self destruction or is it eternal peace perhaps troubled silence finally into the pockets of my subconscious and life carries on in a haze and I somehow manage to smile at work and I have much much much better control now. I do; I tell myself everytime I find myself on the edge. The doors have stopped slamming when we chose to let our words stop and I know we aren’t comfortable with what is clearly a compromise but I am trying to accept how to savage our relationship and I refuse to point fingers, even to the mirror because I don’t want to fake it till I make it, no, I want to fake it till I become it.

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