As of late, my life has been about keeping my head above water.
I have so many stories bursting out of me like a broken sun. My solar flares are reaching points of no return.
Once I’ve given up that story, that part of myself, it’s a piece of my life ripped away. I’m breaking with every word I write. Each syllable is a piece of me, each letter, each punctuation.
The more I give, the less i have. The less I have, the less i exist, the less people see me.
But for right now, here I am. In these words.
This sentence is my ruptured heart.
This one is my cracking spine.
This one is my crumbling bones.
These stories, rising and falling inside me like the swell of the ocean’s tide, are what keep me alive, they keep me here. So when I’m done writing my stories, what will be left of me?
Will the coffee rings i left stained on the kitchen table still exist when I do not? Will the books I left unread sit on my shelf and wait for me to crack them once more? Will oblivion meet me at my demise, or will you remember me?
These are my stories. Take them until there is nothing left.