I push away the world with broken hands. I practice tainted tuishou with my unwilling friends. I recoil into a mithril mail jacket. I wear it to shield myself from strikes of disappointment. It succeeds in binding me tighter than before. It pinches the pressure-points of my exposed ego and protects nothing.
I surround myself with broken toys and old photographs. The familiar smell of my own fear and inadequacy is comforting. Even as a piece of me scribbles a furious crayon plan to escape the corner I've painted myself into.
10:06 p.m. - 2015-04-27
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