it’s hard to bring back to life someone who’s already a shadow suspended by dust in sunlight. a partially eaten heart trailed by ****** bread crumbs with no start in sight. replications of past complications forge a plagiarized grin notarized by a shaky pen on abstract paper. bringing back to life sand-burnt knuckles reflecting tremors through coils in the bottle seems anything but feasible, recovery and relapse are few and far between with a fine line that splits at the seam without warning, the ice meeting the bottom of the glass again is a slow graze of fingernails across chalkboards, help seems out of reach when the leather begins to leech to your skin with each question repeated over and over and ******* over, perceptions of positivity can only withhold the constant of being a placeholder in the tangent of consistencies, but light has the ability to break through windowsills and curtains, yes I speak from experience because it’s the only thing that wakes me up in the morning, but as I become use to walking dead I found my light that wakes me up in the afternoon and puts me to sleep at night