You don't understand it. you won't understand it until they tell you they'll save you and then never show up. until you feel the glass shattering inside you. trying to tear down walls that won't budge. people start thinking you're better and you smile and nod because you even start to believe the lie. You become your own scary movie. and they don't understand because you're fine. you always were. they don't know you're made of broken glass and that's fine because they wouldn't understand.
I think the silent write. I can't get out a sentence without stuttering or sounding like a complete idiot. I can go over a sentence 12 times in my head but when it comes to saying it, I am not capable. but I can put a pen to a piece of paper and write you a story. I write because I cannot speak.
I hope where you are the sun is out and the sky is clear, because here in Chicago it's been a bit colder since you left. Rains a bit more. But maybe that's how it always is. Or maybe not, Maybe that's just how I feel.
One night I was sick and tired of being weak so I looked up at the sky and screamed for something to save me, it turns out that I had received a pair of wings.
I am not sure I would always call things a coincidence but maybe more of a miracle. Like the way flowers tend to bloom in the concrete cracks of sidewalks, or even in the darkest parts of my mind. Miracles, I do believe that.