When my head rests and settles my thoughts free-flow like steam from an overflowing copper kettle.
My chest sinks and swells
My cold, clammy hands clasp together and nestle between my knees to secure me from shivering beneath my sheets.
The dead December freeze batters my body and so I dream.
Unable to abort the birth of an undying nightmare...
I begin to dream of shining on my own, glistening all alone, being covered in a quilt of Guilded gold.
I wish so much to see a crease or an escape to ease my troubled peace. A way to cease this sitting and **** this never ending quitting.
Kidding, I'm not what I used to be. I'm something that I'm not.
I could knit a tight fit glove for me and my humanity to wed inside of. I could pray that we never get pulled apart even if sickness should be my suffering and my witness.
Forgive me, if I would rather stay sick for the sake of my sanity.
I know what lies outside.
Ebonies of the sky ebb at the glow of the twilight field of light seeking sowing.
Forever showing never knowing how cold lonliness is without a hand for holding.
If you had a hand to hold would you?
Could you and your grasp shake my shameless doubt that our past has cast a stone at the glass foundation of our future and alas, our present cannot last?
Can your words convince me that this is how it should be and rid me of what I ought not to be wraught with?
Or is this fraudulent truth an excuse to let loose all of the fear we hold dear as we hang dangling from a noose as the world watches and people stare as if they had nothing to lose.
I know I hope too hard turning hope into current. The positive charge barres negative scars from burning, but yet, my flesh is left brittle and charred.
Maybe it makes no difference or any sense at all.
It doesn't matter nonetheless, for I am desperate.