i am tied by the neck, by the wrists. there are steels circling them, cold and grey, slashing my skin bit by bit every time i try to breath.
i have poison in my stomach and needles in my heart; torturing me from the inside, in so many ways i lost count.
that doesn't mean you can't come to me with broken hopes laid upon a crooked plate in the morning, birds singing and waterfalls and fallen leaves. that doesn't mean we can't sit by the river, watching Mother Earth plays her harp, beautiful yet dreadful.
come. let me see what i can do. let's mend whatever is on that plate.
if by the time Mother Earth finishes her piece and we haven't finished our work, come again tomorrow morning.
bring me the same plate.
bring me the reason not to die yet.
