I used to draw gardens, but oceans seem to fit better lately.
I approached a staircase and climbed up the first step, then the second, but when I went to climb up the third I felt a foot to the front of my head and the floor to the back.
I feel like my chest is a rotting apple, one that fell from a tall tree and was ravaged by the birds.
I feel like a man lost in the woods for over a year and finally managed to light a small fire, but you are the wind that has blown it out.
I've fallen down a well with the walls smoothed out, I've been locked in a closet with no light switch.
I feel like my chest is filled with water, and as the time runs dry, my insides are submerged.
there is a thin layer of darkness surrounding my ribcage, clouding up my feelings and seeping down my spine like an untouched smoke, the vapor killing my lungs and my quiet lips screaming for peace.
the wires connecting my heart to my head are thin and frail and the plastic has been cut off and the metal is exposed and the last electrical pulse telling me that everything will be alright has been sent, leaving my heart a hopeless, useless object.
and when I face him, even with my heart in my hands and his words in my mind and your ruling under my feet, with my breathing slighted, with my voice sputtering and all the salty ocean water kissing my cheeks and the volcanoes already erupted, I fear it will not be enough, I fear being deserted.
I watch my handwriting scribble and fail as I write this, I can see my hand shaking through the ink.