the way anxiety tortures my emotional self

I am letting everything ball up inside of me. It still feels as though a ticking bomb is placed carefully somewhere under my ribcage. It’s a sensitive little one. Making friends with the little me inside. That little girl went through much in her life thus far. She’s kind of comfortable with the bomb. She’s used to it. Talking to it from time to time. Yet, unable to control what’s going on inside. Being pulled in all sorts of directions. From time to time, she will play with the bomb.

Carefully placing it in the palm of her hand. It’s similar to playing with fire. Juggling all her pain in-between her hands. Just watching the chaos blazing. Waiting for the bomb to explode. She almost wishes for that to happen. It could make her new again. Although, it could destroy her entirely.

All her life, she’s played with similar kinds of bombs. Not intentionally. They were placed inside her. Each of them for her taking. Each of them carrying a demonic being. Patient in choosing their next victim. The little girl has an ability to detonate most of them. Yet, some bombs throw her off guard. She can’t piece together the puzzle. Too intricate for her to decipher. So the bomb stays, and leave her with a pulling sensation. The tugging persists as she lives on.


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