A heart so fragile and worn, each piercing jab is like a silent
scream, aching, grasping out for somebody to hold.
Take hold of me.
      And the anger seeps down in through my blemished skin to the veins,
all the way to the filtered heart, where each broken beat is as solitary as the last.
      
      Anxious. Confronted. Alone in the fluctuated dark.

      Yet, you've got to just go with the tide, reach for it and hold on. Maybe then you'll be okay.
Perhaps.
      You're taking things too seriously, but still you can't escape the perils of the continuous back chatter inside your mind.
      They tell you jealousy's perfectly healthy, but in which dimension?
      
      The echoing wail of time lunges at me and I can't push it away.
      Disappearing into a book is the best type of escape for me, but when I open the pages they're soiled and ruined.
     A whisper of a page calls out to me but it always falls down.

      A seeping tunnel of madness is what they tell me I risk falling into, lower and lower until I sift through the sides and vanish into memory.

      Memory. I wonder what that's like?