you are really beautiful, but it doesn't matter when all your words are ugly. they project from deep in your throat like vomit and they fall to the ground like the intestines of carrion from satiated vulture talons. they are already dead, and what is worse is the rotting. I do not need to be a scavenger. there are so many people that want to feed me. why should I go digging up shallow graves?

I don't remember when I stopped being able to express myself through writing. It might have been around the time I started to journal every event of my day meticulously to combat potential memory loss. I think it sucks the marrow out of words for me, leaving them hollow and porous. Whatever happened or did not happened, it is a talent I can no longer boast.

I have to take my life in pieces. Little clips, reminders on post-it notes, twine around fingers. They remind me to keep moving forward when I feel as if I can't. Lightening can strike the same place twice if it contradicts myths.

And you sir, are exactly that: some kind of mythical little contradiction whose voice couldn't escape even the tallest of windows.