Blind Them With This

Despite how perilous it would be if it continued on pouring, I like the rain. I like rainy days and petrichor. Although nights sabotaged by rain may worry me at times, I can never say I do not enjoy the company of the sound of water falling from the sky and the smell of it, the atmosphere. The rain is an inspiration, and when thunder starts knocking on the front door, I do not fear. I like the shout of the heavens. Oddly it comforts me more than it should.

An archive for my feelings - that is what I desperately need. I can't seem to collect them all, tuck them in somewhere safe and private every other day. I am a scattered mural stretching my arms as if they were wings, but I am apterous, and it couldn't suffice! I dream of sunny mornings of plates of bacon but I also do dip my head into reveries of tucking myself in a bed of handwritten journal entries, cotton blankets, and a hazy whisper of elsewhere. I don't really know, I really don't know. I'm just a bundle of question marks. What happens if I fall from a cliff to a pit of flames and waves? Will I ever redeem myself from letting it happen? If I could blame the propinquity of madness, I would. But I can't for I had promised myself that I am in control of my own steering wheel. I could parry these haunted circuits, but I did not and I do not know why.

Run, they told me. Run like the wind. I ran into pale moonlight and whirls of claustrophobia. I fell apart under a garden of pending ambition. What do I do now? Do I dream?

Yes. No.

I feel defeated. My hands feel defeated. Marks of teeth and cold calluses wind around my hands and arms like my conscience. I can't fathom, I can't let science explain this one. I spot a fortress of breathing blood in my body. I sniff a scarf of trees and rivers, and it is never the same. Yet I could not be the same. My veins burst with adrenaline and my cough plans to outrun my heartbeat. And my smile, dear, is terrible. I, people, have scarred it maliciously and have planted battles on it. I cannot cancel my dreams; I cannot cut them in half and save the latter part for later. I do not go back. My spine is aching. My eyes are lost. My lips are searching for a kiss I've never won. I had no competition but the foretold way of how events sequence. I am in bliss somewhere in between these lines, in between these mad trains of thought. Dear God, my thoughts are malarkey! My doings are its quintessence! I am but a figment of a girl's imagination, aren't I? I am spiraling into her disappearing childhood memories. Bring me back! Am I not of import to you? Haven't I nourished your mind and heart in lieu of leaving you with blank pages? Do I not give you something to think about? Oh, my panic. She must have felt it, and it should've been heavy on her, so she had unceremoniously burned it to the ground.

But it's still here. With me. In the ashes of her memory.