Still going

My fault, I guess you could say. I could have stopped it at hello. Left the bed unmade so no one would want to sleep in it. Scratched my fingernails across life’s chalkboard, but they’re so short hardly anyone would have heard.

Maybe I'm just paper after all. Little scraps made by careless scissors. And now there is too much. Too many. The doorway too small for me to pass through. Tangled up in the words. In their meaning. Trying to tame my thoughts with wooden chairs and fraying whips. The roar of my heart from within its cage. I believe it’s called inertia. Why things keep going long after they should have stopped.