Someone in my December days spaced out when the trees sways in the storm. They were dancing, like the way I picture your tongue when they stab the pills. I was so fearful when the tar road of your home crush the lump on my ankle. My bones are never tired. They're laid.
I wasted my winter month with my elbow kissing my writing desk. I touched everything when my brain melts into ugly pool of rottens, dripping down to my elbow. I mean I wanted to write to a lot of people I have names of. I know of them and I know of you but I know none of me. My thoughts are dedicated for the ones surrounding me. And I swore that I would try to write to only one person.
It's not love anymore because when I touched the cold gate of your home, I did not even hope that you'd take me in. I don't want you. The little cuts on your fingers I saw in the middle of November healed. Dying for someone is easy (even if it's for yourself). I wanted more.
I want you to be safe.
I want you to stay alive just a little bit longer.
I want you to hold on.
So I'll live for you.
If I were to, I'd do that a thousand times over if it meant keeping you safe.
Yeast smells bad and in white block letters it says 11 grams of it. Death was 17 and mental image of your pale lips, closed eyes on clean hospital bedsheet. I don't think there are clustered stars in winter but I don't think you should die, too. The rain bound to fall hard.
Do you have to enjoy something to keep doing it? I guess if you'd say it's possible but everyone breaks at one point, I would break anytime soon. Please live for something; perhaps if you despise the idea, not for anyone else but please for your own sake and show them that you won't go down without a fight.
I believe in you and what you are. I always did, always will.
