When everything that once defined you (so absolutely) begs (on hands & knees) to be put out of its (fucking) misery, Do you submit? Your last self’s truths are destroyed. Burned buildings. Buried bridges.
If your eyelashes hold wishes (she taught you that), if you kiss your fingertips when you run a yellow light, if you hold your breath as you pass by a cemetery, if, if, if. THEN! When you make it, how do you know? (Make it?(Survive it?(Bear it?)))
Gnaw your lips raw. That may help you remember. (Or forget?) Peel away layer after layer until all that is left is blood, guts, pretty smiles and twisted words and stupid mistakes that you miss making. Your lies were beautiful monsters that grew up to be not all that scary. Or beautiful.
Rest your feet on glass, rely on a fragile comfort (that may seem strong enough to support you(r (heavy, heavy, weight))), sink deep into the ocean of what you think may be you.
“When I count my blessings, I count you twice”. I count my sins like candles on a cake, and my lost souls who beat my heart into shape and left a (very faded) imprint. Toes spread deep into the ground, your footprints tread (so, so) softly.
Giving us cognizant thought and then making us mortal was the cruelest trick that God has every played.
Charlie Jacobs hails from mountainous Colorado, but currently resides in Hanoi, Vietnam. She is currently going through her quarter life crisis, but fights growing up by traveling, teaching, and playing with cats.