To my incomplete pieces,
Forgive me for letting muse slip through my tears and not fingertips. It's hard to see what I'm writing through the ocean of woe. It's hard to type when I can't even breathe; nose stinging as tear ducts swell. Mouth opens to take in a shallow breath before waves of emotion mercilessly drag me back into the deep waters. I want to tell you how I feel, but how? When the storm calms, I lay afloat on the sea, petrified, paralyzed. Eyes looking at the sky yet unable to process what I'm looking at. Blinded by the myriad of colours buzzing around me. So vibrant. Like a fantasy. I flip with all my might, willingly returning to the blues and blacks of reality. Sirens sooth me to sleep, lulling me with the lullaby of death. Yet I do not die. Joyful memories unfold themselves into a raft, shipping me to a lone island, and I watch them sink. Taken away by the tides. Forever gone. 'Tis the cost of keeping me alive. I wonder how many more paper boats are left as they crumple before me. I survive with no recollection of what monsters lay beneath, so I tell you nothing. I live, with less of me than ever, patiently waiting for the cycle to repeat itself.
