survival.

Sometimes, I cry. And last night, last night I cried. Nothing happened, really, worth crying over. But the tears started, and then the sobs, and then the fear of hysteria. Behind closed doors, I shake. I shake and sob and hope it ends. It feels like sometimes it never ends. Sometimes the raging terror and furious psychosis creep up on my and tackle me and knock me over. I land, dishevelled, on the ground and try to claw my way back up. I end up grasping at nothing and clawing only at my own self. Sometimes I can stand. Sometimes I walk. I push it down, away, inside, but never deep enough. It always surfaces again. It eats away at my rusted interior until I eventually collapse. One day it will be over.