As if the broken voices spoke with glass on their skin.
There came a wave, with dusted words and buried thoughts.
I never saw it coming. It came into the shores of my mind with no calls, no warning.

As if the nostalgia wasn't enough.
It wanted to enrapture me in this shell of pure ebony, pure agony.
Shots of whisky were shared between me and the thoughts that sat in the in-betweens of my mind.

I was telling them about the stories they had created.
How they had managed to be the authors of my life, and how I so desperately wanted them to stop.
I deserved to write my story. It is my life after all.

But that wasn't enough. It was never enough.
They would always find a way to steal the pen from my hand
Not caring whether the ink would spill and taint my naked soul
Relentlessly silencing shattered words that lived in the pit of the alone.