They took my blades

I want to tear off my skin with my bear hands. I can feel it inside of me, spiders crawling, longing to escape. Is it the real me in there? Somehow telling me...who knows? I sit here, still quiet. But inside I feel like I’m inside a washing machine. I’m screaming so loud my lungs bleed. I can visualise myself thrashing about a room, banging my head against a wall, holes punched through it. I hear all these patients howling through the night. I almost envy them. I wish I could just yell and scream and break everything around me, smash through a window with my bare hand, glass embedded in my knuckles. I felt like that at school. I can remember times when I would sit studious and silent and yet in my mind I was picking up chairs and smashing the glass mirrors of the drama room. I can’t believe that it still hasn’t left me after all this time.