I miss the colors of the world

Over the past few days I’ve constructed a force field around myself, and that force field’s name is A. Or rather, starts with A.

I haven’t been feeling safe lately, like my skin is tissue paper and my organs are exposed. I feel like I’m constantly on the verge of making huge mistakes before they can find me first. So I started to write, and there he was.

When I’m reading or writing about him, my skin stops tearing, my organs are hidden, the need to sabotage myself grows thin. If he’s driving the car, it feels like a pair of arms around me, holding me together. Like really sexy duct tape. Or something.

Don’t send me out into the world yet, A. I’m not ready.