#belgiumbabe

I am an open wound. Adventures are my stitches. Goodbyes are my infections. People and memories are my painkillers. But sometimes the most toxic ones seem to work the best.

Whispers of smoke Warring With a solid mass So unavoidable that one feels obligated to try. Slivers of silver ribbon whispering to my soul. Calmly, gently. Calmly, gently. Rocks and pebbles tumbling through, chips of the undulating discontent that keeps me grounded to this world. Scarring and scraping. Scarring and scraping. Sweet glinting wind always so kind, keeping the worst of the rock from my soul. Soothing the fire and giving reprieve. Sweetly, kindly. Sweetly kindly. Boulders and mountains, none too gently, keeping me here. Always on fire, though they never burn down. The eternal bush of unloving. Always trying to hug me with flames, and warm my heart by its fire. Burning and shouting. Burning and shouting. A war in my soul. Ripping holes in the blanket allowing harsh winds of the world to affect me. Though some days that smoke becomes a hurricane and the war path of life is doused in its rain. And the days of rest are what give me belief of an end to pain.