Have you ever been upset but don’t want to tell the people around you why? Or maybe who you’re mad at why? Or you do tell them and really…it doesn’t faze them. That’s my favorite, when you tell someone how you feel and they don’t change things/ care/stare blankly ahead.

Regardless, what i have taken to doing since about the seventh grade is just writing down everything I feel. And no- this is not the whole “I’m writing this person a letter but i wont deliver it.” Its not a letter. It’s just a jumble of things that you really don’t know how to say out loud anyways. I found a notebook with a bunch of these ‘journels’ (i guess we’ll call them that) in it from that troubling grade school time and honestly, they really don’t make any sense. It’s a mess of feelings and reasons and hopes and pleas. Some sentences in capitol letters for those times your mad. Some really messy scrawl when you just cant write fast enough, and some creepily neat writing when you are furious but composed.

I guess the reason i feel the need to write whatever I’m feeling down is because once I’m done, i feel really good. Sure I’m not 100% again, but i feel a lot lighter. As my title suggests, its like the ink in the pen is the venom. That hurt i feel, or the tears i don’t want to cry anymore. if i just get it on paper, it wont be inside me anymore, and i can feel better. I find it rather soothing. Then i just close my notebook and put it away, ready to grab at the next emotional blurb I can’t handle. I scarcely re-read them though. This is not a system where i document my problems so i can re-live the horror. It’s just sitting there, in a drawer, away from me.

It feels good.

Lights up.

There is a girl, sitting in the middle of her bed, the sheets a tangled mess. Take a closer look, and see what she is doing. Perched in her own bubble the girl starts to cry. Silent tears fall down her face, shaken off by the movement of her quivering shoulders. She becomes more and more upset, sobbing, choking, thrashing, pulling, staring at nothing at all but seeing everything. Pink, yellow, purple, green, red. None of the colours matter. Shaking and twisting, she opens her mouth as wide as it can go and gasps in a mangled breath though her glistening lips. She screams. There is no noise. No one can hear. All that comes out the deranged whisper of air being forced out of her lungs in waves of emotion. It’s over taking her. She can’t stop it, crying, pulling, scratching, making no noise at all. After all, she’s in a bubble. Look at her. Really look at her face, past her tear stained cheeks into the swollen eyes that leak what she cannot say. See inside, so that she can share. So that she can stop. Pay attention. She makes no move to wipe her face. Letting the evidence of her breakdown soak into the clothes she wears, the flesh she lives in. She waits for it to be over. Her sobs slowly leave her, and now all she can really feel is empty. No longer is she thrashing, but completely still. She sits on her hands to stop them from pulling at her scalp and reaching for what isn’t close. She sits in the silence that she could never break, stiff and tired. Minutes pass. She has not moved. She has not blinked. The only noise is that of her ever slowing breathing. Tears, still sliding down the tracks they had created drip down onto her legs. She cannot move. She can’t escape. She sits there, on her hands willing her muscles to obey her. It’s almost over. She finds  the strength to glance at the clock and sees that 24 minutes have passed her. It would be nice for her to be able to crawl into the sheets. To find the sanctuary she craves. Unfortunately the only colour that could ever make her move is blue.

Lights down.