I'm getting bad again;
At night my hands shake,
And the words scraping the walls of my skull
stick like rusted needles in my throat,
Half digested and yet fully whole
I'm getting sad again;
For hours I sit and press my numb heart to a canvas,
hoping that the color bleeding across it
will make something more beautiful
than the turmoil that's cracking my ribs
But when your name flashes across my screen
"Are you okay?"
I say:
"Yes"
Because when you speak to me
Your voice breathes light and flowers petals into my lungs,
and the cracks in my ribs don't feel important anymore
How could I dampen something as happy as us with something as cold and lonely as this?
The canvas will stay behind my back,
At least for now,
Maybe I will tell you another day.
-the faithless fingers of a dying person
