Is it bad that I hoped it was life threatening?
That I could die and it would all go away and I had my body to blame?
That it was like a suicide of sorts, but that I wouldn't be in trouble?

*Oh, the joys of mental illness.

I have these little flurries, sometimes.

I tend to feel very introverted, very tired, very unencouraged.

But then a song comes on.

And I am invincible.

What does the beat do to me?
Easy.
It shocks my heart back into rhythm.

They always describe words as dripping-whoever they are.
Words drip from your lips,
drip from a microphone,
drip from the speakers of your car.

My words do not drip like the forlorn water clinging to the water faucet after their companions have ceased to flow.

My words attach. And they hold on.

To what, I can't be certain- who can be certain of anything in this mired time of our lives- but I know it keeps me going, I know not where, but that is the consolation.

You are steering me in whichever direction I am meant to go, and my words are the oars. They may have seemed ill-said, but they put me in the direction in which Fate would have me drift.

But not aimlessly.

So, darling, when my words hold onto you and attach themselves to your lips, will you leave them there?

Or will you let them drip away?

I'm only whimpering
But I know you can hear me.

isn't it just hilarious how I don't even know how mentally old I am like not in a haha i'm a kindergartner type way but more of a i still haven't found myself type way like the fact that i need a kind of alone version of hide and seek to find myself but i'm still not done counting off yet and i don't know when i will be because things keep changing and flurrying around my head like lost and gone and happy without me and happy before me and four years and seventeen hundred miles and razors and flowers and drip drip drip i don't know where i'm going i don't know where i'm steering and i told myself i wouldn't panic i won't panic I WONT PANIC I WONT PANIC but i do anyways and the culmination of all of this is just the beginning the beginning of the end and i can't even see past my own breath and even that escapes me and i just wish you were here you with your hugs and you with your whispers and you with your comfort but you three aren't and i'm stuck in the middle of a mud puddle a mile long and i don't think it's ever going to go away so maybe i should just resign myself to sinking

We are not always.

We are not forever.

We are not okay.

We are not fine.

We are human.

Always, because we cannot change our makeup.

Forever, because we cannot alter our DNA.

Okay, because we tend to drown ourselves a little.

Fine, because we have to make it through somehow.

Human, because that's how we were made.

And perfect, because we are made of imperfections.

The watermelon's tears alighted lightly against the bloodstained perfume, and when the steam cleared, light was visible filtering through the fingertips of the victorious battle-bound man with the paper crown. Was this ice and freezing of the tongue to be his reward for the conquest of the wooden palace of Arbol? We would soon see...