Portals To Another World

Folded

    I'm folded can you unfold me?
    We looked back and saw the other cars headlights under the tunnel like stars during the day.
    I sit here in the candle light with smoke surrounding me for my hair is on fire, each breath I take setting my thoughts up into the cold night air.
    I am stuck in this place, ivy for hair and thorns for nails. I scrape my skin and think of the stars. This place where each beat of the song makes me flinch, it is no longer my heartbeat. Just a shock to my system.
    Each layer is a part of me that I show to others. One more active or happy, than others. But now I'm thinking, too much thinking, maybe the thing I'm folded around is sadness. Everytime I centre myself and take a deep breath I am left with this crippling feeling of self hatred. Seld isolation and self inflicted hurt.
    Every new story I write I become a different person. I feel their pain like my own. I feel how lonely, angry, frustrated, happy, and ecstatic they are. I constantly break myself apart for these words that are bats in my mind. I have so many stories to tell you but so little time. Will I even see the damned morning. I will not proofread this before posting it. I do not want to censor this for anyone who may see it.
    My mind romanticising green ink letters when I wish to sleep. I hide my thoughts in silly writing that no one even reads. I'm tired of feeling tired. I'm tired of feeling like my characters are pieces of myself that people judge as completely separate entities.
    God am I going insane. Probably.
    Or maybe my mind has folded the past to look golden in the sunlight, when it's truly a page made of copper.