Today was bearable,
Today did not hold the sting that plagues me so often these days.
Today I woke up from the sleep id been needing for weeks, and I ate buttered bread and I drank hot cocoa.
Today I stood immediately from bed;
I refused to let myself stare at the ceiling above it for an hour, trying to find a tempting face in the paint.
I often do, to find something to bring me to my knees.
But today was bearable.
I wrote music.
Music that sounded, music that rung with a twinge of envy.
A deadly sin, one I know will ruin me.
It's pitiful, is it not?
To be incapable of sharing anything deep.
In fear of what I've done to my arms, my chest, my neck.
Im deathly afraid, of bearing it again.
Because today was bearable
But now I've heard the songs I've wrote on days in which it wasn't.
And if nothing else is true, I know you wont hear them, and not be scorned.
I know you wont be able to look past them for the pieces of me that they are.
For the feeling that I need to expel, to expunge, and in someway... consume.
I think that in a sense, if i can create it — make it tangible for myself to devour.
I can get rid of it.
I know they say you are what you eat.
But if I don't eat anything, all thats left will be acid.
And it will burn.
