There is a terrible storm raging outside
and I am here, and I am alive.
My skin is dry and cracked and bleeds from the smallest friction
and I am here, and my body works to replace the forsaken flakes,
and I am alive, and feelings the pain of touch.
I have valued myself, yet again, dependent upon the reception of another who I cannot speak to, or speak of, for no one quite understands obsession and self-love as two suits of the same card.
and I am here. and I suffer. and I quell screams. And I stew a soup deep inside that could feed millions of children whose parents didn't want them, who weren't ready, or who wanted them too much for selfish reasons. I bring a ladle to my lips every few weeks to test the seasoning. I burn the taste buds off my tongue every time. I keep the fire going.
and I am alive, underneath all of this callous and scar tissue, pointing out the stars that still our myths depend on for direction, ******* in sugar like a hummingbird whose body has grown too fat for its wings, the energy needs to move this bloated body growing ever higher.
i still sing to myself, for comfort and joy.
i still listen for familiar sounds to remind me of the stories I've told.
i still dream.
I'm still me.
screaming inside
hoping to be heard
lonely from being inside myself so long.
waiting for the lock to rust and break.