You let the ability atrophy beyond reckoning. Nobody will be listening to your sickening, self-defeating reasoning, your words lacking anything resembling creativity, nuance, feeling. You've turned your past into a living thing, stripping the present of any wrappings, the only lasting ribbon is this crushing need for security. You're paralyzed at the thought of living, terrified at the thought of giving up this hungry passenger who leaves you weak and empty. You must let go of this broken thing you call on instead of surrendering, surrendering to the truth that this life, it isn't ending.

It ended. It's over.
This life you had is no more.
This life you wanted so dearly isn't hiding like some four-leaf clover.
It's gone.     Let go.
Before it's too late, before you grow so deeply in this wasted longing, that none of you will show.
Look above this water, be terrified of what you don't know, instead of drowning in some bottle, looking for some afterglow. Instead of swallowing some paper, hoping the lines will show you the road. Show us there's a heart still beating, a rhythm finally worth repeating, there's more than ghosts to keep on breathing, this pain will not remain undefeated.