Obligatory relationship with my demise.
I don't know when I begin to fade the lines between my passion and my reality. Maybe it was as soon as I dropped my blue ink on the floor and watched it spell out "reality," or was it the day when I stopped watering my secret garden and left it to burn under the sun?
Every night, I sit down on the table for two, pushing away my eagerness to write somehow I sit facing materiality now, it asks me to see what I wrote & then rips out every page & tosses my daily spread at me, telling me to stuff my face to stop me from spilling out my yearning. It keeps its eye on me till the time I'm laying in my bed, like my mother removing my glasses from my face when I fall asleep, it's snatches away my diary full of letters I held to sleep. With each night passing by, the pages becomes less and I fall onto knees more, with the whimpers of fear shaking my bones, thinking a day will come when it'll finally snatch away my desire to write and throw me into the real world for people to take their bites from me.
These days it takes alot of courage to spell my emotions on my ivory pages, I feel ashamed as if I'm stripping away my truth infront of faces i have never seen before, it makes me turn my back to every mirror and cover the one in my room soo that I accidentally don't peek, too deep in my soul and spill out the yearning, churning my stomach. I removed the cover today and saw it holding the knife I am working for, it asked me to meet it tonight for a cup of poison together as it saw me pick up my pen again, maybe this time I'll throw my half-empty cup into the faces of my demises and watch it lick off their faces and let it drag my body to the finish line so I don't fall behind (again).
