I used to believe my arms were similar to water and that eventually whoever I wrap them around for comfort would run out of breath. I knew that once they go up for air they would forget to come back for me. It is true I have been drowning for what feels like forever but now I know after years of being under that I am not the water and I never will be. I am not free flowing and my hands are not the ones slipping stones into pockets. I've realized that it is me who has run out of breath  it is me who has steel shoes and over time I have become so desperate for someone to untie the laces that I trust anyone that dives into the water.

Your strands are not soft or kind
they're brittle and gasoline coated
your ends do not descend gracefully
they are chopped into straight lines and cut my
fingers each time I touch
but it is your hair that blows in the lightest winds that I want
I love the smell of the thin black daggers
that surround your pale face
the aroma consumes me and I need my fix
nothing could suit you better or worse
than that rough hair you caught me staring at mid April
and I know my fingers could never pull the thick wet locks
behind my ears
but it is one thing to desire
and another to possess
I am content with my brown honey touched strands of silk
black has never looked good on me anyways

Today I ran down the same hallways
I've been avoiding my whole life.
The same halls that had plagued me with
tunnel vision every time you would walk
past me and pretend I wasn't there.

Music is the only thing
that makes sense anymore
its the only way
I can describe to you
the darkest parts of me
the texture of broken glass
encasing my heart
its the only way
you can feel the wires wrapped
around my lungs
feel the fire burning through my veins
lately
its been the only way
I can feel anything at all