the snow has always been deep.
i find myself wondering what it would be like to fall from the sky and cover dead people five five five feet in dirt
what would it be like?
to fall on the rooftops of happy parents, happy children, happy happy happy.
happy is a pile of leaves in my mind that i use when i need a reminder of how people want me to act.
but it's winter now and it's getting harder to find that pile of leaves so i settle on displaying an extravagant and artistic blend of emotionlessness.
i tell myself i can do it i can do it i can do it but the hearing test came back and i will always hear you will fail fail fail die
maybe, if you're lucky, soon, but it's really not your choice unless you want it to be and growing older makes you want it to be.
you're slower now, you've grown older, it's always winter and the hearing aids are too expensive.
your life is a house and the snow upon its rooftop muffles the voices of people that can help, people that might try to help.
the wooden walls smell like dead trees and there is no furniture in this home but four ceiling lights.
you've spent your days staring at them and the cold has already broken three but you're not worried.
it's darker now and you're not sure why but you feel obligated to repeat your name until it sounds like anything but your name because having the same name as someone else has always bothered you.
the pile of leaves is still lost under the snow and it's getting harder now to say your name and you don't know why so you curl up in a ball and think of dead bodies buried five five five feet deep.
you freeze.
the fourth light breaks into tiny shards reminding you that your vocal cords haven't been used since thursday.
you can't remember how many lights there used to be.
did you know that you could just sleep?
did you know?
you we're always buried five five five feet deep.