Creation consumes creator.
You think that’s beautiful?
The bursting of skin, the taste of newborn blood?
You think this is the life I chose?
Consider what I pay.
I will always be half present, half alive, birthing someone else.
I feel so much yet I gain so little.
When people need me, I am not there.
When I need them, no one is there.
I’m too involved with my fantasies and not enough with my human body.
I spend nights systematically beating myself up, next day I cry over my bruises.
I am made of rot, my heart is glass, everything leaks out of it, I can’t control my emotions.
I am followed by the thoughts I banished, they grow stronger in my absence. Then return to devour me.
I read made up lines over and over to distract myself from it. I cling to everything I find. I can’t let go without breaking bones. I can’t cut of anybody else, I only know how to hurt myself.
I keep making things up. My creations live. They grow. They eat me.
I create them again and again so that they can’t die.
They end up living in my place.

Echidna was, in Greek mythology, the mother of monsters.
And no, I am not feeling well.


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