Voices rang in her head as if trying to communicate that something had been lacking for such a substantial time that she no longer saw it as lacking but as the normality that it served in her life.
She became accustomed to the constant lacking of sustainability that it served as nothing but a blanket of sheer comfort to her being.
Uncertainty was the one certain correlation between holding on and feeling fulfillment because it was the only common trait anyone had ever presented at the doorstep of truth she held so dearly to her heart.
She became fixed on it - searching for the ability to communicate emotion and more so the constant question of whether or not her invested time had been to them what it was to her ever longing, love struck, wanderlust soul.
Was she a fool or was she holding onto the parts of those around her that even they failed to recognize exist?
Foolish or foreseeing?
She had yet to decipher the difference and had but the slightest clue as to if she ever would, and that served as comfort to her misguided heart.

Her color diminished second by second until all that was left was but an empty abyss.
A sense of such enormity that caused everyone around her to wonder what exactly was she made up of.
Was it secrets or portions of herself that she lay out on a table for everyone to read?
Had we been witnessing her story this entire time or was there more behind the surface that she intended us to decipher for our own well being?
Is she our dictator of soul or have we constructed her into the answers in which we as humans are constantly searching and never receiving.
For what are our determinants but our own minds in a world ravaged by constant input?

You descended into my soul so effortlessly, like dark blue dissipate into the muted periwinkle sky that kiss the hilltops of dew covered mornings.
Had there been but no measurement of the graceful manner in which your touch take a turn from skin to grasping onto organs locked behind the stern walls this may not be so difficult to comprehend.
Yet for the first time, the notion of numbers on a clock became irrelevant and I saw this beginning in gradients and neon bursts of color that illuminate all in its path.
For what can we track the depth of which we dive into oceans- with a ticking minute hand or the depth in which the opacity of our surroundings grow?
I caught you at midnight, I drowned in your essence like 500 kilometers below sea level, I admire you most at sun break, and I love you, how I love you, like the most effortless periwinkle blue.

I calculated life in days and not months or years for the fact that the important of otherwise minuscule sounding matters would sound as if it were grand. I reached for substantial representation as a reflection of the scale of enormity otherwise considerably short run instances have upheld in the 7,412 days since I was placed here.

7,412 days was enough to develop myself into the individual that I have never thought I had become. I am becoming the final forms of myself for the world to witness. I am beginning to blossom- though shriveling along the way- I am becoming beauteous and complete.
7,412 days has left me aware enough to know that
5,480 days ago I learned what loss was.
It was 5,480 days ago that I realized our minds **** more viciously than any plague lashed upon man.
5,480 days since coming to the conclusion that we are but temporary morsels of flesh on an ever-evolving plane of half-assed existing.
5,480 days since I realized that the enemy is not what we create in our heads as so it be the actions that have led us to create those idealizations.
It was 829 days later that leaving became a common occurrence in this calculated decline of my own innocence.
60 - some odd days thereafter I was led to believe it was my fault. It took another
730 days to realize that the weight of losing those close was that of had ripping my organs out with my bare hands.
898 days later I entered a
789 day torture chamber that had stripped me of every last pure portion of my existence. I wandered aimlessly with a bullet infused heart and the tattered and torn paper exterior that had served as a canvas to display the scars in which I had left to collect.
It was but 864 days until I had the slightest indication that this broken soul was of importance to anyone. I learned that believing this weight I had carried was not any fault of mine, but infractions committed by those who had set their own inner demons upon me as if they were handheld grenades and my mind was enemy territory.
It took a 40 day journey to find that for the first time I was given a sense of belonging and learned that sometimes it took coexisting souls to make sense of what our individual purpose had been all along.
I jumped aboard a 1,351 ship that had led me to places I had never ventured. I experienced rough seas only to be followed by fresh spring meadows. I had sat in the rain to appreciate how comforting the sun was as it kissed my skin ever so delicately. I had been to battle for a cause I was never sure would thank me, but when I found that it did I would have endured the fight ten times over for the bliss in which companionship contained.
4 days ago I learned that laying your entire soul out for another could still end in nothingness. The most beautiful presences can be reduced to but a deafening silence, a halting defeat.
Today is day 1 of knowing fairy tales are but compilation of half-truths.
Maybe codependency is but another word for makeshift.
I am disposable, but my soul is not.

I am as infinite as I allow myself to be.

My insides swelled begging their casing to break. 

To be set free from the confines they had been expected to find comfort within- to sit with contentment for all eternity, to accept the known with no knowledge of what was outside of their ingrained idealization of a humble abode.

They throbbed, slight at first then gaining vigor as my vitals cried out so sweetly to acquire some sort of insight as to what lie beyond such a feeble body.
Rip me open from head to foot, expose the very reason for physical existence and destroy it. I want to feel my heart on the floor.
Drop my stomach from fifty stories if it means that of a slight fluster of butterflies will evolve into a spontaneous combustion of excitement along with blood-stained pavement for my proclamation of wide eyed wonder, and the butterflies.


Give my hands to those in need.
Sever them with the grace of which graciousness should be felt and hand these hands to the masses reaching for something, someone, to allow those who have fallen to rise above adversity. 

Lend a hand! Lend a hand! For I only have two.

Throw my eyes in places that uplift your soul.

Play the harpsichord of my vocal chords when in need of an extra push.

Keep my lungs, for you were my breath of fresh air.

Lay my skin atop rose petals and let it dissolve.

Throw me to beauty until I’ve become nothing at all.

Allow me to live without limits until I am all gone, for how can one truly experience all that is lovely without turning to it completely.

I want to be of use, you see.

Far from what existing as one conjoined body is set to allow me.


Cut me up into a million parts, spread me far and wide.

Then look to all the humbled souls, as if I haven’t died.