August 8th, Year of Silence

Life has to be more than beds that serve as coffins, coffins as beds. More than lovers who are reflections of mothers and fathers, who could not love well. More than tragedies as stepping stones to a greatness that is promised, but never delivered. More than moments that force us to wear armor we forget to remove, then forget how to remove.

I need, but do not trust enough to rely on someone else.
I say I love, yet know I give my heart too much credit.

There is a strong possibility that this is exclusively my reality.
From thought to feeling, I cannot express myself appropriately, or at the appropriate time. Fragility has held her reign, trapping me in an embrace I surrender into. I break and I bleed, and it repeats until I fucking break and I fucking bleed

August 8th, Year of Silence

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