Fireworks in My Teacup

t h r e e

Chaos.

My mind is chaos and I've learned to accept it, flaws, cracks, and rattles included. That's what makes up most of it, so there's not much I can do apart from sit back and convince myself that I love it, while watching every part of it lose its ability to feel, bit by bit, slowly being drained of colour, a canvas dropped in a muddy puddle.

Lend me colour.

The murky water sloshes and swirls around in my head, a whirlpool of broken memories, feelings and heartbeats, refusing to go down the plug hole that's clogged with the same things that clog my throat when my eyes tear up and my hands shake at late hours at night.

Is broken really beautiful?

A pattern starts to form, a pattern of sad writing and sleep and sadder writing and sleep until the binder is filled with penned down hurricanes, tiny tornadoes. A storm trapped within a book, threatening to shred it apart any second with the sheer capacity of it.

It shredded me.

I made a map of my mind and tried to trace it back to my sanity but I think my watery eyes smeared the label away because it's missing, the blurry ink barely visible but I guess that's okay, because we're all lost within ourselves these days.

We're all miniature whirlwinds. Enclosed only by the full stops at the end of our dejected poems.