It's like drowning --
But the type she could stop if she just had a stronger thought process --
One that could block out remembering what it was like to be the first drag of a cigarette he was jonesing for when his grip formed around her face -- But she doesn't.
Her mind can't erase the way his eyes lit up like staring into a fucking Christmas tree in the pitch black -- Her presence was moonlight, but he saw that as too intense and pulled the shades together so as not to expose himself to raw truths --
Still she held him --
Promised to be present tomorrow, but not overbearing --
Holding her tongue so as not to whiplash his emotions when she tries to open up -- Tries to explain that one of the lights are burned out, but so long as he puts that in the back he won't see it -- Like he doesn't see her --
Like he refuses to understand.
A continuous problem with solutions all around -- but all the others shine so what's the issue?
Seen as the girl who stirs empty pots --
So don't question her when there is no longer energy to feed the soul --
no longer a drive to satisfy the hunger that aches every once in awhile deep in the backbone of the body. She is just folding feelings into recipes that will never be sought after --
and that is one thing she is happy not to pass down.
YOU ARE READING
Self-reflections, confessions, studied subjects, and soul spilling words that sit on the page, but hope to reach out and coil around those that chance a peek at them. If you like what you see, please leave some feedback and let me know. If you have...