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The morning started with me coughing for air. I've had troubles in the past with my breathing, frequent dizzy spells during my younger years in class. Now, I feel myself becoming more and more frustrated to no end, I feel it in my lungs, my whole chest. I am trying all in my power to stay afloat, and the person I've accepted into my life, I've allowed them to step deeper into the ocean of my life and despite the currents I see they wading alongside me. But nowadays I feel as if I'm with a ghost, a splintered, weather-worn piece of driftwood that only pricks my skin and leaves me cold and alone, gasping for air as the tension rises on whether the elements will be kind enough to have it float my way. I wish not to dwell on these matters for too long, I have something of a life to begin, or was it a life? The dead are defined as something that has no future, no promise and no obligation other than to lie, lie still. I suppose I've been dead for some time. 

My highs and lows are the wildest of storms. I awake to the suffocation of what is to come, the imminent isolation that weights heavily on my neck, and I choke on the stale air and I choke on the stained flooring and the buildings look no longer like locations of prosper but haunted by the gold-draped memories of someone else, someone younger and happier for the first time. 

I am growing tired, I am growing and shrinking, I am both the child and the worn adult, in sync with some other walk of life of mine, following my footsteps either to glory or the ground. I beg to a long empty sky, I beg as to why I am afflicted with this tormented wind of supreme confidence and seething melancholy, on an hour by hour, I feel awake and slip as easily into a fitful half-sleep that leaves me a bloodied mouth and broken skin. I've exposed myself for too many people, I am raw beyond belief, and now that the hands that held my flesh and bone loosen their grasp, by their own will, I am betrayed once again. I only exist to be the embodiment of a friend, I have no story of my own. 

I ask not for help, or for pity, do not look down upon but at my eye level. I need a mutual confirmation that I am more than a body, more than some conjured spill of words, that no matter what I produce my offerings to you all will be welcomed with open hands and hearts. I want, I need, to take off the mask. 

My head is conflicted, always. I have too many problems and not enough time. My ability to write is only fueled by a starved desperation, never by the joys of living, never by the goodness of friendship. This wounds me. I am hurt by this depraved motivational factor. Whichever muse flows through my very essence must thrive on invisible tears. 

I do not get angry. I wear myself out until I am too tired to be compliant, too tired to care about the other body. My anger is not hot and fiery, it feels like ice on my heart, on my skin. I am worn out, and I cannot take what I have dealt with for over half a year. What I am holding, who I am holding, is not someone I can call a true love, if that exists, I have yet to find it. I am too young as I gravitate to someone who wears the same skin as an old friend, but the voice is off and the body is devoid of compassion. I dream of beheading the snake wrapped around my throat, the one I feel every morning.