Keying at My Sanity (an old free-write)

Sometimes I lay down in my bed like I’m about to make a snow angel. My legs and arms are all spread out and they’re out there and then this feeling overwhelms me.

It’s like these shackles grew out of the mattress and they chained me down and now I’m stuck. Just because I laid down, I’m locked into this prison. My teeth are grinding, my hands are clenching, my eyes are closing, and my heart is angry. I push and pull away from the bed.

But I’m stuck.

So I close my eyes and lay there.

Three hours later I open my eyes and I’m still there.

I’m still there and the shackles are still there.

But there’s this key. It’s laying by my left knee, by that weird birthmark and the burn from the curling iron that I got last fall. They key is just inside my comfort zone, but just out of my reach.

I hope one day you’ll see the key. And you won’t stare at it or look at me funny for not ever grabbing it,

Cause you’ll know I couldn’t.

You’ll just unlock me and then I’ll be free.

I hope you’ll see the key.