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My toes are red against the marble, my bed is cold to my back. There's a hole in the middle of my chest. The world around me seems more familiar to a punctured bucket, you'll fail to fill me to my brim even if you pass me through a river.
Notice how I say 'Punctured'; Artificially flawed, forces beyond my control ruined the sphere of my existence. I was too busy being lost in the delusional wonderland my mind had created to ease the pain of being damaged beyond recovery and due to my inability to differentiate between my fable and reality, it seemed to merge into one gross materiality.
I began to doubt my own word before any of you ever could.
My cerebrum began to enjoy the noise around me to drown out the storm it created itself. It used the noise to drown out the wails of my center, to drown out the loss of the girl I once used to be. The frail sweet adolescent who became someone she didn't want to become.
My failure to protect her purpose lead her to grace a shallow, dejected form, whose polychromatic world became embellished by a monotone of black, white and grey.
Grey brought with it an uncertainty, a cruel dilemma of jittery and complexity which consumed my cycle of animation, forcing my conscience into a frenzy of a cloudy, warmly cold spiral of rationality.
But in my fracas to find myself in the rubble of war, I hoped I'd find a glimpse of her in somebody, remorsefully so.
I hope they keep her safe, shielded, and grow with her.
She's a flower; spring for some - evergreen for others.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
