I had a mess upstairs in the attic that I needed to clean up. It was almost a year of abuse. When I'd attempt to clean it up the boxes they would spill over. On some of the days, the boxes kept stacking. I was losing my mind. It was frustrating to find the space to place everything. I would find it easier to shut the door to the attic. Leave them there for another time. The wind from the window would blow the door open. I'd have to walk all the way upstairs to shut the door. I couldn't close the window because of the smell that would linger behind. There in my pathway more boxes. So I'd light a match. I'd toss it into the attic where the boxes lay. Burn the boxes they'd turned to ash. Before I knew it the ash fell through the cracks. All through the rest of the house down the walls and the halls. I had no other option I had to leave. The ash left a smokey smell. My lungs they'd bleed. I couldn't breathe.
I just couldn't breathe.
I run to try to gain some kind of control. This is the only way I know how.
"I'm going to stay eighteen forever."- BN