grief sends signals to your spine, to your mind, to your heart. it combats the emptiness. but only one prevails & it is the one of familiarity. your almost lover has her life stolen in cold blood & you’re back to normal before you can genuinely let it fester. you want to avenge her. but you’re weak. your voice serves the sole purpose of providing monologues, not for screaming. your hands are made for hacking the way to a solution, not for delivering a gunshot with the motive of self-defense. you aim to be brave but brave is the very last thing you are. you once heard that blood never truly washes off. the statement holds its truth. it stained their skin so easily. their innocence is an hourglass that is slowly but surely reaching the bottom. it’s not over & you know it. you were spared during the course of the first massacre & deep down you know exactly why. but you see the good in her. she’s your best friend. you refuse to let the thought settle into your mind & escape the pit it currently resides in. be blind, not brave. no matter how much suspicion arises, no mater how many creeping doubts & growing distrust.
// IND. NOAH FOSTER. EST. JULY 2015 .










