Am I Alive or Just Breathing?
Am I alive or just breathing?
Days pass by days pass by days. The broken slumber shrouds me in a haze and I float through everything lethargically. I crouch and cringe. I clutch and flinch. I fake it and I grin. You win. My flailing words fly out like cannonballs from catapults and hit your hard exterior. They just fold. They just fall away. Your skin is thicker than I ever knew it was before. I used to feel so strong in knowing. But truthfully, the ease at which I stare and long and find myself trapped inside of daydreams where I don't belong is maddening. It's damn near repulsive. And while the oceans swish behind those eyes I realize too late that I can't swim. How could I have forgotten? The most vital bit of knowledge for the seas! My flesh swells up and I rot upon the beach.
Does sound get sucked into an unseen black hole between you and I? You swore to never say this and to never do that but promises are fairy tales from your mouth. My skin is shrinking and I am stretching sore limbs. It's getting tighter. It's getting harder just to breathe.
Am I alive or just breathing?
How could the mask fall so suddenly from your face with no fair warnings? It could be tempting to launch myself into the wind and hope to find your arms just close enough to the ground to break my crash. To keep me breathing. To keep me hooked to those machines. But impulse is not instinct and I am not a savage.
But I am nothing but a savage with animal nature. My amino acids pining for exuberance. We mix our wrinkled liars faces in with wax to preserve the memories. And we preserve them well. The ink fills in the lines and gaping holes in the stories. Our skin falls off. We shed in wine.
I know it will be days or maybe weeks before our courage nests comfortably in this storm. I know you hate the way that it all tastes, but we must continue to dine on guilt and unhappiness. Guilt. We are the guilty and we are criminals of all.
We build our towers on shaky ground and I still ponder what the horizon keeps a secret. Could it be a solid center? Could it be a proper structure? I feel so weak in not knowing a damn thing anymore. I resist the urge of a passionate crime. I resist all urges for the months between breaths.
Am I alive or just breathing?
Days pass by days pass by days. The broken slumber shrouds me in a haze and I float through everything lethargically. I crouch and cringe. I clutch and flinch. I fake it and I grin. You win. My flailing words fly out like cannonballs from catapults and hit your hard exterior. They just fold. They just fall away. Your skin is thicker than I ever knew it was before. I used to feel so strong in knowing. But truthfully, the ease at which I stare and long and find myself trapped inside of daydreams where I don't belong is maddening. It's damn near repulsive. And while the oceans swish behind those eyes I realize too late that I can't swim. How could I have forgotten? The most vital bit of knowledge for the seas! My flesh swells up and I rot upon the beach.
Does sound get sucked into an unseen black hole between you and I? You swore to never say this and to never do that but promises are fairy tales from your mouth. My skin is shrinking and I am stretching sore limbs. It's getting tighter. It's getting harder just to breathe.
Am I alive or just breathing?
How could the mask fall so suddenly from your face with no fair warnings? It could be tempting to launch myself into the wind and hope to find your arms just close enough to the ground to break my crash. To keep me breathing. To keep me hooked to those machines. But impulse is not instinct and I am not a savage.
But I am nothing but a savage with animal nature. My amino acids pining for exuberance. We mix our wrinkled liars faces in with wax to preserve the memories. And we preserve them well. The ink fills in the lines and gaping holes in the stories. Our skin falls off. We shed in wine.
I know it will be days or maybe weeks before our courage nests comfortably in this storm. I know you hate the way that it all tastes, but we must continue to dine on guilt and unhappiness. Guilt. We are the guilty and we are criminals of all.
We build our towers on shaky ground and I still ponder what the horizon keeps a secret. Could it be a solid center? Could it be a proper structure? I feel so weak in not knowing a damn thing anymore. I resist the urge of a passionate crime. I resist all urges for the months between breaths.
Am I alive or just breathing?
posted by Samus | 11:05:00 PM
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