Bittersweet

• Metaphors

I promise you I don't want the dead cat by the side of the road to be a metaphor for my life, but I didn't choose the way the universe talks to me.

I want my way home to be just my way home, and not an hour of me fighting with my own body, trying to decide if I'm either the dead cat or the road.

The way the wind blows through the blue curtains in my room shouldn't remember me of the way he whispered in my ear for the first time, but it does.

Every single time.

I never meant for the walls of my brain to become a labyrinth guarded by dragons and demons.

When I try to speak, my words get lost and never leave my mouth and when I write they get caught in spider webs.

My tears are stubborn teens that never wish to leave their houses. They always stay inside even though it would be healthier for them to visit my cheeks. There are nights in which I try to pull them out of their beds but they never listen to me.

I don't remember what it feels like to have your face become a river and your eyes waterfalls. I don't remember what if feels like to hold a hand and spit out the balls of broken thoughts I keep in my throat.

During showers, my soap is not my soap. The soap is my only hope to wash this numbness out of me but it always fails to work-

everything is a metaphor for something bigger than itself and no matter how much I shake my head, these thoughts are not water in my ear. They never leave.