I've been silencing myself in this matter, covering my mouth with colors and nails to hide the truth, painting the roses red so that no one can see what's really wrong beneath. But I've been banging my pretty red rose head against the walls and floors trying to get it to work how I want again, and I'm slowly feeling everything slip away between the blades dancing on my fingertips.
Come back, old friend. I feel so lost without you. The hours drag on and on and I forget time, space, existence. Am I real any longer? All I do is mundane tasks that may advance my pawn two steps but the soul is all gone.
My fingers have not constructed any stories or poems or the things that keep my heart beating in too long. Has been weeks or a month? I have no clue. It seems like forever. Forever since I could write. Come back to me, please, I am so lost without you.
I rock and smile and sit and spin like a normal girl with normal motions and emotions but none of it feels real, not without the words. They're not spinning in my head and when my head is not constantly racing and spinning in thoughts I forget who I am. Its funny that the less lost my head is the more lost I am.
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
I want the fire the ashes, the fall and the fly, but I can't seem to get my sand-block feet to move their correct spaces. No fight nor fear can live here while the woman soldier sit on her head, on her hands, stuck spinning and spinning until the world falls apart around her.
I need the blue, the words, the stories in my head to be rushing and reeling once more. I need a new forever to sustain me for the next couple months. A new love to fall into before I let it go for the next. The blue has grown and become its own and is nearly over, and I must find anew before I can truly let it go. But what can I do?
The anger and depression has been dealt with. What can be new?
The silence, the guilt?
My Star Crossed Killer seems to be the best for such things. Possibly I could use her to save myself. Or anything. Just any and all stories. I want them all.
Perhaps this poem or whatever this is, an emotional dump, a monologue of madness, be it what it is, maybe it can be a beginning. A new one, where I won't feel so lost without the blue, one where I can find something new.
One can only hope that their mind can adhere to their desperate pleas.
Come back, please.
