So, I am exhausted. My bones jut out of my insides to show me that thy are split. I cannot fix this without breaking more, because to fix is to fight when you are Brittney White. I am so close, though. So close to breaking free forever. My ligaments must try to stretch just once more and I will have it. I will have the sun. I will have harmony. I will have peace. To become a number is to lose identity -- but I will so that I may prove them all wrong.
I think that I am in love with the most dangerous breath of life I have ever taken.
1 comment:
Sleeps, young fawning, grow on your own. Rise to meet your challenges. Bone on polished bone. Rest easy now, your name is known. Know that this vagabond is made not of stone. But of polished blue marble with a hint of black smoke, likes to eat raw emotion and writing is his coke. It’s a hellish (heavenly) kind of high. All distance and intimacy; a paradox of sweat and detached feeling tinged with respect and impudency. You have Honor, I say! You gunslinger of feeling, you’re will to cut loose is neatly appealing. I found you (say sorry) in this world but not in this plane, shall I see thee again in one more/less sane.
Post a Comment