Recovery Drags

Recovery drips down slow.

Messy molasses mending the wounds of my sticky heart.

Warm embrace resting in the pit of my belly,

coating the walls of my insides.

Sitting in silence, heavy breathing paired with grimy thoughts.

The brain gives out before the body does.

The brain gives out before the body does.

The brain gives out before limbs turn numb and useless.

Drowning in liquefied melancholy,

blurred dreams tonight.

Recovery drags.

Dull girl, still blue.

Tired of feeling tired.

Tired of having to work so hard for a rush of endorphins.

Messy molasses mending the wounds of my sticky heart,

making my life mundane.

Blurred dreams linger into the afternoon.

Again. Again.

Messy molasses leave me be.

No name #60

IMG_1894The sunshine,

it is beautiful.

Beautiful.

Beautiful.

Beautiful.

No more, no less.

It is simply, beautiful.

The crisp smell of spring,

it isn’t always infused with hope,

it doesn’t have to be…

But it sure does feel beautiful.

So beautiful.

Someone told me: when you learn to love yourself,

to love every stretch mark,

every curvature,

every atom,

that is when you will find beauty.

Beauty in the filth.

In the filth.

The filth.

The filth.

The filth.

Because even the filth, it is beautiful.

Beautiful enough to bring tears to those

endless,

those endless brown eyes of yours.

 

 

Head full of flames

Today at work the fire alarm went of:

“Not a drill, I repeat this is not a drill.” Death by electrical fire. That doesn’t sound so bad, I wouldn’t mind burned alive.

It sounds one hundred times better than drowning in the ocean. Lungs, they fill up slowly, with water, not oxygen. With water. So tragic, the desperation. I couldn’t stomach the desperation or the sea salt. Now fire, I wouldn’t mind being consumed by different shades of orange and red. Wouldn’t mind it one bit. Lungs they fill up with black smoke.Limbs become dust, dust returns to the ground to become one with earth again.

And frankly, I’ve always loved playing with fire; fire feels good on the flesh. There is something poetic about being burned alive. I don’t think I would mind going out with a head full of flames. Wouldn’t mind it one bit. I bet it wouldn’t hurt so much. I bet it wouldn’t hurt so much.

“Not a drill, I repeat this is not a drill.”