My bones are weary. It isn't a pleasant state to find oneself in. You wouldn't say so.
Little bones in the neck start to grind together, muscles pulling crisscross and backwards down the planes of your back.
At any moment the fear may present itself; that these bones will squish meat and blood so tightly that they must burst through skin and you are certain, of more than just your own sleep deprivation, that it will **** you.
You’ll see stars, feel the heaviness in the muscles of your arms as they slowly deaden, for how impossible their dream of reaching up and cupping starlight. If only you could embrace it.
Fill your glass up with sparkling dust and drink ‘till you are infused with it. Like more than you were your first summer night - warm, dark - spotted with fireflies, whose wonder stared and blinked back into you as a thousand suns.
Drink until the heat builds and spirals into every nerve, every particle of marrow, until it is lifted from pressure, lifted from being, lifted to a state of not but pure release.
Then remember that you are a story. That stories do not behave, do not twinkle in as timing permits, nor align as a physical presence.
I am glacier inside, I feel the snowbanks drifting through my mind. The little icicles behind my eyes and the floes bobbing sluggish though my heart. I don't know how to thaw.