I have too many stories filling me up, words etched into my ribs. It’s driving me mad, but I can’t seem to push away this lethargy and exhaustion. Not even to write. I close my eyes and all I can see are scenes and characters and stories but I can’t get any of them on the page.
I want to curl tight and sleep like I’m dead but can’t. The world is too big for me, stars and galaxies filling each breath until I am choking on the words I cannot force.
I feel like I must sacrifice something, rip some dead limb from my surroundings to jump start my heart. What have I got left to lose? Do I let the beat slow, glacial until the spring thaw? Or set the world on fire and shiver as the bones crack?
Why is there never middle ground? No, easy stepping stones across the ford.
I’m bled dry tonight. Too filled with words and rubble to do more then sit and breathe. Too many shards shifting to dare the jump.
This skin is no longer mine. When did I lose myself?