03-12-2019
I have a few unpublished accounts. Drafted. I think they are too personal. I think my grief is sometimes only mine to share with. No one else's. I am constantly scared of losing what I have found. The little of me. I'm scared of people devouring me. Engulfed in a sea of emotions. I can't let them. It is the only thing which I have. My candlesticks which I refuse to offer to even the neediest and wonderful of beings. I would set out of it. Who is intending to be a thief? No one. They do not know. They see me in the eyes as they savor spoons of my content. One sip from the cauldron. One at a time.
I am not accusing. I cannot accuse unintended mishaps. I cannot accuse because of my cowardice. to feel hurt. So I numb my senses. A pillow suffocating my ability to feel. The temptation to expect; I can't let it be.
But I'm tired of the walls. I have been standing against the door for so long. Trying to keep the feet off the ledge.
I am tired. I miss understanding. I miss shoulders. Hands. Warmth. Melting drops. friends. him.
The number stays switched off. yet I still stand knocking on the door closed. hoping that my fiction was somewhere real to live. I hope to lose hope soon. I am tired.
I am not accusing. I cannot accuse unintended mishaps. I cannot accuse because of my cowardice. to feel hurt. So I numb my senses. A pillow suffocating my ability to feel. The temptation to expect; I can't let it be.
But I'm tired of the walls. I have been standing against the door for so long. Trying to keep the feet off the ledge.
I am tired. I miss understanding. I miss shoulders. Hands. Warmth. Melting drops. friends. him.
The number stays switched off. yet I still stand knocking on the door closed. hoping that my fiction was somewhere real to live. I hope to lose hope soon. I am tired.
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