Wallowing in a muddle of mush, a pleasure indulged in by pigs. The moist mush seemed somewhat soothing for not only skin but the soul. This little girl ( that goes without a name) too liked to wallow in the mush of dirty lies. Over the years the condemnation and guilt so frequently accomodated her weary body. Much like a pig in mud she'd wallow in the mush of lies. If only she knew full well that lies is what they were.
As she lay there in the mush muddled with her (perceived to be) poisoned blood she was comforted this time not by the mush but the loneliness she felt. This time it was only herself that she found. Just herself.
alone.
What a delight to be without those restricting lace up shoes. Without the webs of lies tripping her up. In the darkness she found rest. Once again her heart skipped again.
Determined to get herself out of the mush. She found herself pleasantly within and without. The space she created within her own soul was surely going to create space without.
Within and without. On the inside and outside.
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