the devil's hands are idle play things

i am afraid of those creatures that make the searing, screeching sound by day. 
they are silent by night, but still, they are there. 
no one notices. 
no one says anything. 
i am afraid to ask what they are; what if no one else can hear them?
i am not from this place. 

but will knowing change anything?
a name to a sound, a name to research, a name to curse silently in the day. knowing solves nothing. 

perhaps it is my own mind screeching. crying out. devil in my brain, hell bent on a sneaky destruction that wraps silently around my heart and squeezes. 
i can feel it beating so fast sometimes. i imagine it is trying to escape the devil but is attached to too much. must i sever my organs to be free?

my spiral has many arms. it is a galaxy with too many pin pricks of light. is it ours? it follows no physics but its own. 

the mind has no constrictions, which it, naturally, takes full advantage of. 

i spiral down until i crumple on the floor, strings of panics surging out of my mouth towards L. She tries to reign them in, but my mind is too stubborn, too strong. 

i take pills. go under the blanket. breathe, smoke, breathe, smoke again until i am dumb and lurching and wrapping myself up in L's warmth. i have tears but i don't want them. they solve nothing. 

well. enough of that. 

there is no one to save us. 

the devil is, in essence, my own mind.

the world, bored, doesn't care, continues on.
every pause means more running. 

so. braid it up, tuck it back in. that is what the sulci of the brain are for, after all. the wailing wall. i may be still wailing but mine's nearly full. 

but who cleans up the folded prayers when there are too many, and what is done with them?