floral cold

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floral cold

january7twenty19

compostable planters seemed like a good idea. roots breaking free from their small egg carton spaces and completely shattering their mold. my idols.

smacking at imaginary bugs that run up skin late at night, stomach feeling grim. a couple perfectly wrong notes and I'm awake til dawn. thinking about what is being avoided thought about, in that desensitizing way that makes one feel even more disconnected.

always struggling with whispering demons and their undertone jabs of feeling alone in both the full and empty entrance halls, doomed into going blind and not seeing the hearts that beat in sync with my own. it still feels like yesterday, even though it most certainly isn't.

with dreams of past lives and future moments locked in time, shaking my head and trying to find a way out, words tangle into insecure musings that choke at night. small talk is not the baby footprints across my social landscape, it is big bootprints trying to tiptoe, digging too far into the ground in the process.

wanting to feel like a collection of chords that I hear late in the night's song, so that when played, they'd all know. the sheet music is right in front of them but nobody knows how to read it, and so I'm up late nights perfecting my masterpiece that nobody else can properly play.

but then there are those that play by ear. hopefully.

my hopes are too high, they're always with the clouds. warning words are tucked away until they weigh nothing, retreating to the stomach in knots.

saw too easily that lovely bits and pieces are far and few between, and with the drain clogged with chunks of teardrops turned to bitter ice unmelting; I always found myself grabbing at them. soon enough, had a museum full of perfect ice sculptures of unforgiving ice with frozen flowers caught inside, bleeding roses tearstreaking my favorite memories' bodies.

and in the museum of freezing sculpted beauty, with those flowers trapped too perfectly and too permanently, etched in fire burning cold, sadness turned gray.

imaginary bugs still get the best of me, and I'll see misinformation displayed too openly for my maligned brain to not take notice of. we need a warmer exhibit; some centerpieces could feature me and make me feel inches better, but that perspective might as well steal heartbeats.

collections of simple moments spread out upon stepping stones may lead me to a warmer climate.

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