Under my skin

I feel a mixture of discontent, non-fulfillment. Unaccomplished, inadequate, insufficient. Like a huge part of me is missing; when you stick your hand through, you’re clawing through air, the remnants of a has-been. I’ve been dreaming a lot, a lot of blood, feels so real. It’s been quite some time since this demon of a shadow has crept up to me, looks like its managed to find me again after all this while. But its not wholly a bad thing, it feels like an old friend who has come to visit me & embrace me in its familiarity.

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Plugged: Masochist – Ingrid Michaelson

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