My brain is creating these little storage units that I can’t access to store my trauma. I don’t really know what’s in the little storage units but I can tell it’s not good. I know something is off but I don't know what is off. It’s like walking into your apartment, you know something is missing but you don’t know what. You’re walking around looking at the bookshelf thinking there should be more on there but there isn’t. Like why are there random open spaces on this bookshelf? Deep inside you know that someone moved those sad books to the storage unit but you don’t know when. You know that someone is the part of you that’s protecting you from reading How Europe Underdeveloped Africa for the tenth time while sobbing because you can’t escape racism and you are high and you didn’t get any Gushers. Living in a world that hates you and then not having your favorite snacks when you are too high is very difficult to handle.
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