In the morning, make me a cup of coffee and cascade the emptiness with all of my regrets, salt the wounds then add a dash of mistakes.
let it spill over, burning a road map down my arm and guiding us toward every house that wasn't home. let me savor each drop bit by bit until my energy turns into persistent delirium. let the traffic lights be every person who caught you on fire, and let the stop signs be moments you stopped breathing before your lungs decayed into road rash
we're moving again
traveling on a road of desperation wondering if anything could be different had we chosen an alternate route.
my brain says, "take a back road. become lost"
my heart retorts with, "weakling, you're already lost."
unable to make a difference, this map will forever lead to the same destination.
this pain will continue, amidst the eternal return
traffic lights accumulate, stop signs become unbearably longer while my breathing becomes the only heat I can feel against this coldness, an open wound continually dragging across asphalt
over and over again
my bones begin to disintegrate underneath defeated limbs, within the times I've told myself I'm okay, sorrow formed a foundation around my demons. these pretty lies had become my best friends, they gave wings to my broken spirit while once so bright, it had been extinguished by the sea that flowed between my grief.
all at once, the lies I've told possess mouths with razor-sharp teeth, and their deep-rooted fury has proliferated for what feels like a century that I've held them captive in my hands.
27
it has been 27 years since honesty was gifted the sun, while it burned her hands, she smiled and said,
"It is agonizing but it is so beautiful"
how much longer will I suffocate under the burden I've become?
"What, if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: ‘This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything unutterably small or great in your life will have to return to you"
(Friedrich Nietzsche, 1882)
