growing wings | Completed

26. dear god

with trembling hands, and a fearful heart,

i write this to her, to me, and to you, dear god.

if this hellhole keeps sucking me in, sapping me from my strength,

clawing at my greed of sight, hearing and taste.

i do not want this.

with vines intertwining my fingers, thorns stinging me,

i write this to her, to me, and to you, dear god.

there are days where the skies are clear, no clouds in sight,

and there is content pooling at my stomach.

i loved it.

with petals of lavender resting upon my sore eyelids,

i write this to her, to me, and to you, dear god.

i had promised to talk about myself, so here i am,

my eyes are burning green forests, my hair resembles my wretched thoughts.

i wish i didn't look like my mother.

with a heavy heart, evil looming above my shoulder, and veins of silver,

i write this to her, to me, and to you, dear god.

there will be soon be clouds filled with rain, and lightning striking onto my cracked body,

a face of anguish and heartache looks back at me in a reflection,

i hope i don't feel this anymore.

with misery imprinting himself onto me, with his cruel, cold hands,

i write this to her, to me, and to you, dear god.

i begun to wonder if curiosity got the best of me, and if my time is near,

has my clock finally struck midnight, and will the beat of the drums that echo in my ears finally stop?

sometimes, i wish this pain went away.

with a wracked brain, and confusion filling up my lungs like a murderous gas used in wars,

i write this to her, to me, and to you, dear god.

i want to know why i can sometimes only think about her, and how she affects me with such little actions,

what am i? a pawn to this horrible worlds? or maybe i am a pawn in my own damn mind?

am i trapped? maybe.

with a gun to my head, i wait with my wits end, and fingers slowly decaying with a dark blue,

i write this to her, to me, and to you, dear god.

if i mix all of the colors in the world, i'll finally see what i am.

black. black. black. the one color that stands out, yet recedes into the darkness.

do i let the gun fall to the floor? now is not my time.

with a gun held between my cause of self-destruction, i uncurl my tight hold on the metal, i let it go, and think,

i write this to her, to me, and to you, dear god.

if my time does come, will i know of it? will this fear of myself loosen its vice grip on my bones?

i do know it is not now, so here i am, letting it go, and walking down this bricked path back home.

i promised myself i wouldn't be irrational.

- dear god