There's something crippling beneath my skin, striving to be freed out into the air of materialistic elements of a human's life.
But, I know the things I hold within myself. I know the dangers of not having my pet-dog leashed by a chain. And, if I'd really leave it out, it'd grow on me- the feelings would grow on me, like a creeper on a fancy stick.
The things sprouted from my skin the other day, which meant, I, miserable, failed to keep it hidden underneath the thickness of my bloods.
They were tiny hands, erupting from inside, stretching my skin, reaching out as if it is in the hurry of saving someone falling down a cliff. I really wish that 'someone' would be me. I really wish I could save myself.
The hands grew longer and longer every passing day. It started to slowly embrace me, like the outer-shell of a tortoise. It felt thick and suffocating to have around.
It was hard to breathe. I tried to break free, tear down my skin to nothing, as long as the hands disappear.
But, I was reluctant of letting it go. It made me feel safe and warm, hidden inside a hole, beneath the hands- the skins of self-assurance and white lies.
It made me feel safe.
Really.
Safe.