Does it walk next to me like an old friend?
Does it sit upon my finger as a ring?
Does it dangle carelessly around my neck as my mother's old pearl necklace?
Do I hold it in my hands as though it is a cold stone fished from a shallow creek?
Does it burn me like fire or freeze me like ice?
Does it sit upon my back as my clothes do?
Or is it sitting inside of me, chiseling my heart away slowly with it's nails like bone?
Until all that is left is a pit so dark,
So empty,
Not the bravest sould would dare enter.
