No matter how I try to get ahead of myself, to stop the dagger from piercing through me; no matter how impenetrable I make the shield protecting me, to make to walls rise higher around my heart... I'm still vulnerable. I'm still a fragile little string that could break with a single tug.
And it's in these moments that I cling tight to the words I write. I cannot allow myself to cry; I depend on my pen to bleed ink, to cry in my stead. The pieces of my soul are tattered, stitched together, to hold itself without breaking. But I am so close... so close to falling apart.
I sit across my desk staring at the blank pages, seeing nothing but a kaleidoscope of black and white, feeling nothing and everything at the same time. The pain lashes inside me, burning me, that I even feel a blow physically. I wish I was paralyzed, unfeeling. But I am human, and I was built to feel things.
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Written Constellations
PoetryA constellation of prose, poetry, and verses spun together for a galaxy of love, life, heartache, and hope.
