I can feel the cold as the blood in my body begins to freeze, and my bones are reduced to frigid and brittle cut-outs. And while I am being taken over by this repose that consumes me, I am not yet numb, still so very susceptible to pain. Rubbed raw from reality, the grip begins to loosen as I was always the kid who fell of the monkey bars. Helpless under the crushing weight of passing days, a quiet composure fractures.
I don't even know what I'm thinking, I can't even get these words out right now.
I know what I'm trying to say, I just don't know how to say this. Or say anything at the moment.
The razor edged tongues lash away at my insides, and vulture upon the rest of me. As I lay aside of the highway, my carcass on display for the passing cars lies about with eyes rolled back to the sky, watching for fate to toss over what's to become of this, what's to become of anything. I am consumed by the murk I begin to find inside myself, yet not surprised by it's presence as I have been rotting for ages. It's funny what the frail brushstrokes of an artist's hand can conceal, what concealer can hide, and what hider's can't seek.
I really can't do this today, the words just aren't fitting together in my series of unfortunate events.
Just know, brittle bones shatter.
No comments:
Post a Comment