For months, I’ve tried getting rid of the

demons that manipulate the marionettes in my

head, only to see those demons gave me

something to feel.

Something to get angry about.

Something to fight against.


Instead, I put on layers

to shield me

from the wounds. Supposedly,

they bandage my battle scars and protect me from future ones.


Layer after layer, I struggle

with the chainmail until I

buckle under the weight of feeling






Not just from the stab wounds of sleepless nights crying myself to sleep.

Not from the explosive cannonball panic attacks. But also the smiles,

and laughter, and excitement, and hope.


As I swallow my last bit of pride and the tiny little pill,

I become engulfed in a chrysalis

of cloth and metal. Encapsulated in my own

cage, I scream an excruciatingly muffled cry.


It finally sinks in and suffocates

me like a straitjacket.

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