Up until
a few months ago,
when anxiety
had enfolded itself
around my brittle bones,
when the innumerable
butterflies in my ribcage
had begun
to breathe their last,
when my whole body
had been a gun;
the pen and paper
in my hands were
the only safety switch,
and the poetry I would write
had been my only salvation
from the melancholia
of existence.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
Up until
a few months ago,
when anxiety
had enfolded itself
around my brittle bones,
when the innumerable
butterflies in my ribcage
had begun
to breathe their last,
when my whole body
had been a gun;
the pen and paper
in my hands were
the only safety switch,
and the poetry I would write
had been my only salvation
from the melancholia
of existence.
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