sorry for the cold that comes when i cross your path. i cling to winter to feel less alone.

what i can pull from the earth and carve into language is only whatever glitters. breaking points, some levels of self hatred, anything to keep myself sounding normal while i lead of life of tears over worse. unrealistically i become a marvel, more realistically im unrealistic. teenage years, years of my life before, i’m a sinking anvil in an endless ocean, fearing for the day i can be lifted and cleaned, because i feel that weight of mine bruises. too many feathers piled together, ‘me’, who refuses to hurt anyone i could ever call ‘you’. a any person’s precious life and time, energy shouldn’t be wasted digging up potential answers for those dead from birth. fantasy never comes without guilt, ‘you’ will remain unattainable for as long as i remember who ‘i’ am.