book of words

melting

Change is such a small word for such a big thing. Change sinks you to the floor and shushes your mouth so you cannot breathe or speak or make a noise and you cooperate. Change puts their hand to your mouth and shushes you and soon your hand is at your own mouth instead, shushing yourself with the promise of nothingness. The promise of the numbingness in your legs possibly becoming slightly less intense, but not really. There's nothing plausible about the promise- there's nothing stable to hold it up. Because you're the one holding it up.

So I shout out my grief to the world and turn my back when they come to help. I cry for support and bite the hand that supports me.

Change promises me nothing, and it promises others greatness. It sinks me into the ground and I smell the wet grass from the thunderstorm before I pull my own head under.

No-Change breaks it's own chains so I see how different it is when I don't have them on. I go sobbing back at the end.

A foggy head and a brittle ribcage protecting a swollen heart. It pushes away the person clearing the fog and shatters itself in the process. I sit in my own brain, watching, silently, helplessly.

I do not change. I stay in the hellhole and I continue biting the hand that loves me when I beg for the love. The memories stays foggy. It's what I have always done. I do not feel like climbing from the well. I'd rather rot.