it has finally stopped snowing
after how long?
steam and fire
blood and breath
it's all gone.

thank god, right?

but it's not exactly fields of flowers now.
because now i have to figure out how to swim
through the newly melted
floods.

Is it bad that I hoped it was life threatening?
That I could die and it would all go away and I had my body to blame?
That it was like a suicide of sorts, but that I wouldn't be in trouble?

*Oh, the joys of mental illness.

I have these little flurries, sometimes.

I tend to feel very introverted, very tired, very unencouraged.

But then a song comes on.

And I am invincible.

What does the beat do to me?
Easy.
It shocks my heart back into rhythm.

They always describe words as dripping-whoever they are.
Words drip from your lips,
drip from a microphone,
drip from the speakers of your car.

My words do not drip like the forlorn water clinging to the water faucet after their companions have ceased to flow.

My words attach. And they hold on.

To what, I can't be certain- who can be certain of anything in this mired time of our lives- but I know it keeps me going, I know not where, but that is the consolation.

You are steering me in whichever direction I am meant to go, and my words are the oars. They may have seemed ill-said, but they put me in the direction in which Fate would have me drift.

But not aimlessly.

So, darling, when my words hold onto you and attach themselves to your lips, will you leave them there?

Or will you let them drip away?

I'm only whimpering
But I know you can hear me.