I Spent So Much Time Trying To Tell You How Much You Look Like The Sky.

I want to know what you hold close when your feeling empty

I want to know what you claw together and stuff into your empty chest like cotton in a corpse.

When your numb and dead and there's nothing left what keeps your shape?

Is it worth it, This thing your clinging to?

Does it make you more human? Does it break the numbness?

When every piece of you is dead and gone what should I expect?

When worlds collide they do so violently.

Crashing together with a destructive passion.

They set fire to each other and are burnt up in the process.

But what is left in their wake is what we live for.

I was wrong. The clouds are moving. Only slower than me.

They've cleared the other side of the trees now.

And when I can breathe again, so will I.

It's sun down now. The early stages of it, where the sky is still full of light and color. The clouds are thick an mountinous. And completely still in the sky.

The big lumbering breaths are blushed pink around the edges. Deep scores of grey over every curve and crevice. Dense and almost palpable.

It looks like a painted back drop.

And I have no where else to look.

The only difference between a monster and a hero is motive

There's a strength in the palms of my hands.

And I sit in awe of it.

A short lifetime of climbing my way up and through.

Gifted and abused are my fingers.

Peppered with calluses and scars.

And I find I like it, this simple fact about myself.

It could have been true of a lot of people.

But in this moment it is my truth

Sometimes I catch myself not breathing.

No air filtering in through my lungs.

My brain fuzzy and slow without it.

My chest still and my shoulders hunched.

Like some subtle subconscious part of me just decided this was it.

Time to give up.

I fell headfirst into your eyes. Walking deep into your soul. Forgetting where I'd been before.

    Now i’m so lost in you I don’t know if I’ll be able to find my way out.

    Clawing at your seams, desperate for freedom.

Trapped am I in the lilt of your voice; the tilt of your head. The sad way you look at me. 

    I’m not sure if I’ll ever be rid of you; or if I even could

Hurt like you

There's something about sea salt and brine and the way it sits behind your eyes.

Bright and blue and full of sorrow.

I know they only romanticize your pain; as if it's some great achievement.

They say they want to hurt like you, not out of ignorance.

Only because they don't want to hurt the way they already do.

The salt it stings and the foam dyes you blue.

But for them it's soft and soothes their burned to hurt the way you do.

Colors under my skin

There's violet and lavender and lilac.

Like deep bruising, like sleepless night, like cold anemic skin.

It hurts somewhere between the cold defeat of blue and the hot anger of red.

But it's comforting too, like acceptance; acknowledgment; the first step to getting better.

And there's yellows too

Marigold and dandelion and polished bronze.

It's like warm sunshine, like soft flower petals, like sturdy statues.

It's encouraging; hotter and more pure than red but never as close as the color of life.

But it's intimidating too; like the mythical idea of being okay.

The wall

I've dug my fingers in the slated spaces between bones. Clawing and dragging my way up this jagged wall. Knees braced against bleached and broken fragments. Stained red where they've nicked my skin.

Silent is the cursed air. Like the very sound of my voice may break in front of me. Cutting even deeper than the bits of skelton beneath my palms. Than the pale splinters lodged under my nails.

I see nothing above or below, only the wall stretches endless anchoring me in it's ancient death.