I do not know which iteration of myself I am pleading with this time, but let me ask on my knees if I will still be you when I get to wherever I’m supposed to end up. When you say ‘try again’ I reset, slam myself into doors and windows until the milk of my bones seeps back into amniotic fluid, and then I am here again.
I am here again, and now I have new mistakes to make.
Pause. Confusion. Breathe. Play.
There’s a body in the glass, fragments plucking themselves through parallelities; there’s something beautiful next to something that stings, and they pool together like watercolours against a sky where you can pluck your finger from the air and lay claim to the spot where you think the end might be.
If you want the end to be yours, then take it. Tell me how I should be going about this, and if you can watch as I ruin everything again, let yourself become dust in the air and surround me with the control that I do not have.
I’m not in control. I’m never in control. And there’s something absurd in the air that pushes the day to the horizon again.
It’s up to you now.
Pause. Rewind. .
From a collection of poetry I wrote for a creative writing portfolio in second year of university, titled 'Spiral'.