Tell me the world stops shaking...

Everything is shattering all over again. Or maybe it’s the walls around the pieces I’ve never been able to put back together that is spilling like a sharp flood into my veins. It is cold with things frozen for far too long, hot with the temper I’ve bound in chains and I just want to rip and scream, beat and destroy. Tears flow instead, helpless trails that do nothing but give away this struggle raging inside. I am smoldering something, fragile and broken, but my fingers shake too much for the finesse that is needed to put the tiny pieces back together.

I am sagging skin of exhaustion, bruised under-eyes that see too much and sleep too little. I am suffocated worlds that I’ve found tucked in the folds of paper, created with ink. I am bloody fingertips that pound the keys so that this pressure growing inside of me finds vent to steam so that all that I’ve bottled doesn’t stain my organs. I am awake in all the ways I wish I wasn’t. I am eating miles and going nowhere, aging in the process without having accomplished anything.