I couldnt sleep last night
or mornight
probably because i was waiting
for something
someone
uncertain.
and it never came.
instead these words spilled and a part of me ached as i realized what i was writing about
a part of me crumbled as i realized that i was writing for the wrong reason again.
piece 0.1
your skin
oh yeah your skin and bones
will eventually
turn into something beautiful
maybe not as beautiful as you
when you still walked the grounds of the earth, when your feet touched the dry cement on your old schoolyard; your sole hugged the sand of every beach you visited and your toes kissed the wet soil whenever it rained and you were by the mud spots.
maybe not as beautiful as when your hands still served as a bridge, as a gateway, so that paper met pen every single opportunity they got, to create art out of nothing, life out of nothing but rubble of thoughts and feelings, when you turned whatever anxiety was choking you with, into combinations of letters that choked it back, that fought it back and stood up to depression: the bully. when your fingers turned your own monochromatic world into an endless possibility because you realized that maybe the reason that your world was in black and white was maybe so you could turn it into your canvas.
maybe not as beautiful as when your veins still pumped blood, when your heart still continued to beat, when your eyes still continued to see, lungs continued to breathe, mouth continued to speak wonders and poetry, ears continued to hear all sorts of things, be it even blasphemy
instead your wrists continued to bleed
wait that's wrong
nothing continued
it ran out.
your skin and bones will turn into something beautiful
maybe not a beautiful as you as when you were alive
but nonetheless
still beautiful.
-and right after writing that i felt so drained that i actually fell asleep out of weariness.
9:57 am
