There's a relief in feeling the storm approach.

When the silence finally gives way to the familiar noise of my thoughts overlapping each other, I can relax once more.

And it's strange to admit, but I feel comfort in my own mental illness.

I feel comfort in letting myself cry when nobody is around to listen; in bottling up my emotions until I break down.

It's easier to do that than to open up; It's easier to sink into the pain, letting it drag me under in waves.

How do I heal when I don't know what's broken?

Bandaids are meant to stop the bleeding, but what keeps my soul from spilling out of the cracks?

I am a glass child, and therefore I am doomed to shatter.

Maybe the thunder isn't so bad.