Its not warm anymore without it.
The steady drip
Always felt like a
Soft, repetitive musical note
Singing me into the clouds.

Sometimes when all of my memories and thoughts about you build up, my tongue feels like its too big for my mouth and the wind feels like needles. My brain feels like cotton and all I can smell is that very specific, heart beating too fast, stomach in my throat kind of scent of you. I hate it.

I cant find joy anymore.
I have looked under every rock,
And behind every tree.
Ive searched through fields.

I dont know when she left,
I just remember waking up one morning feeling a little emptier
And a little more lost.

Its been cloudy every day since.

I am simply a vessel for you
To feel
Important,
Controlled.
Strong.

My saviour.

Fear spills into me, and soaks through every ***** like ink makes its way through paper. So effortless. Without hesitating.
I wonder if healing will ever feel less like dying.
Ive inhaled so much poison my lungs are nothing but corrupted flesh, Ive set fire to my stomach hoping that it will **** whatever is in there, eating me from the inside out.
None of it works.

Ive wrapped this rope around my neck hoping that it will pull me out of this dark cavern of a soul,
not thinking about the possibility of it strangling me on the way up.
I crave chaos and fire deep in my gut, I live off of gasoline and insanity.
I grab at whatever strand I can find, tying bows until it looks like the cutest little tangled up mess.

Admitting powerlessness does not =
Giving up.
Asking for help does not =
Weakness.

I will turn this rope into the softest golden thread, and weave in the most incredible love anyone has ever seen.

They stitch together an entire coat for you to wear, created with all of their layers
And layers
Of self hate.
disappointment.
hurt.
resentment.

They line it with wool,
And pick out the perfect pattern
That makes your eyes turn to stars
And your skin itch to have it wrapped entirely around you.

Ive started to notice the way the fabric silently pulls a needle and thread through every inch of this skin.
This hurting, dry, raw skin.

I refuse to hand this tradition down to my kids.