My mother is dying and all I feel is guilt.
I'm the youngest of 3—the only girl.
I am my mother's pride and joy. She's often said if I were first I'd be the only.
My mother is dying and all I feel is guilt.
I've had the most time with her but I am the youngest. I am 20. My siblings are twice my age.
My mother is dying and all I feel is guilt.
I feel I'll never have enough time with her, so why have my brothers had enough thrice over?
My mother is dying and all I feel is guilt.
My mother is my best friend but I don't show her how much she means to me.
My mother is dying and all I feel is guilt.
Of course, it's not my fault, but I'll never tell her enough how much I love her.

My mother is dying and all I feel is guilt. Not because she's dying, but because I've never told her how much I need her.

Dear sunrises and sunsets, why must you be so different? Your beauty has a significant impact on others, as well as myself, and we are sorry for sometimes displacing your grace. The way your colours dance around the presence of the sun and the clouds, combined. Some days you don't appear in places, but we know you are always there, somewhere. Maybe at a different time. Always there. There is never a day where we are not blessed by your nature, the prepossessing sight brings joy to all. We thank you for that.
Dear sunrises and sunsets, why must we be so different?

What do I stand for?
Such a simple question,
sometimes incessant in your mind.
Gnawing at your psyche
asking, demanding, screaming.

What
do
YOU
stand for?

I know...

Poison surrounds you, encasing you in the sweet smell of death. Rebirth. A new morning. Spring has sprung from within, however premature. Skies, screens and smoke.

Taught to leave the past behind - we carry it with us, and invite it in through the cracks. It slips in like smoke. Screens. Skies.

The sky is a putrid colour of green. Escape it. Delve into the baggage of our past. To blue skies and longer days.

It's fake. A screen. The skies. The smoke.
Hazy green and lily stench.
Poison surrounds you, the smell no longer sweet but sour.

Your voice is one in which I crave.
You make me feel.
You've made me cry, real tears. Not those crocodile ones that the children cry.
Real, wet, hot tears -- euphoric in a sense, the tears, they clear my mind.
They make me see what I couldn't before. A sense of -- enlightenment, perhaps?

Would you come with me if I needed you to?
Life or death, would you be there for me?
I would, for you.
I would do anything for you.

You love him. People don't think you do.
I do.
I've always known.
Would you do anything for him, as I would you?
I don't doubt you would.
You almost died once. It wouldn't hurt a second time...
Right?