just a place to let go

spattered across our souls

hissing words leaving

papercuts and bullet holes

seeks not your needle and thread,

for I am whole within my shards,

I don’t hate it. It just doesn’t fit properly. Like a hat meant for a head much too small. 

i miss the subtle greys you showed me

the bitter grey of early morning skies

the soft grey of falling into sleep

the warm grey of your shielded eyes

the creamy grey of river stones

the cherry grey after a long cry

the beautiful grey at the end of a book

“Know what the problem is?” 

I’m searching for ghosts of people who no longer exist, of those who never had and may never.

I’m searching for an oasis in a wasteland, for intelligence in the ashes of a library, for cheerful notes within a requiem.

“Well, you tell me you’re not tired when every day, they drain you. Every day, they steal life from you. Every day they cut you open. When just being a human being is hard enough, you’d wish every breath was your last and you don’t hope to wake the next morning. You begin to wonder what others have which you lack and kindness becomes a foreign concept. So yeah...tell me I’m not allowed to feel tired because I haven’t lived yet, tell me I’m not allowed to be tired til I’ve got one foot in the grave.”