I am in love with every pain I feel. I am scared to death-or not close enough to it. Every minute is spent in a limbo between hating myself and wanting to end and knowing I can't because for every thing that I could drop in a second; there's my Love. Capital L. She is perfection incarnate and her every perceived "flaw" is a note in her melody and Jesus, who could find it in them to stop that? Her siren song of life and long sleepless nights spent in her arms, showing her her own value, are all that keep me tethered.
Every long drop I come to I stare down and slowly back away from because how could i stop the music? I dive into every deep pool and keep going until my lungs burn and I can barely make it to the surface because in smothering myself I would smother the moon. I stay up every night waiting for the moon to come out I wait with covetous eyes and with ears tuned to its almost silent harmony. What harmony? The perfect way it melds with my own fading stuttering disappearing song, consistently bringing the volume up only for it to plunge again.
And then I breathe. I breathe. But I can't. The pain in my chest comes and goes and every time it gets stronger worse scarier and in filling my lungs I press their walls to the pain and they deflate. And what if they inflate and I keep breathing only for the pain to puncture them, because you're supposed to breathe but maybe too much of a good thing applies here too.
Asleep and awake run into each other until I can't find the end and my sleeping is wakeful and my waking is slowly becoming a conscious coma. And if I spend my life in a coma I'm never awake but I can't open my eyes for all the stitches keeping them closed. Did I put them there. Did I thread the needle, or did I only continue pushing the sliver of metal through my skin until I run out of fibers and start threading the needle with myself.