Rain of Daggers (unfinished)

I am small and pointed at the world. I am atoms and molecules stuck together, bouncing, veering off course, colliding with everything. I am matter, and I am not what matters. I am weight and mass, a person in theory. I am a memory of a person. A person-sized hole. I am voices, many, and none of them are mine.

I am tired … still ... Like I didn't sleep, like I never will, like the sun is an excited child and needs to play. It knocks on the front of my skull until I sit up in bed, sheets braided around my legs like ropes I both want to escape and never leave. My mouth is sticky with the memory of mint toothpaste — a taste I hate but keep returning to. My room is a museum of surfaces: I should clean but won't, the unmade mattress I long to sink back into yet despise, the window that scabs over with frost in circles and lace, beautiful and suffocating. I stare at the ceiling. I need to do laundry. Every cell in me screams to move, just a little at first. Anything to stay alive. Please, move, you can't stay here … this is how it happens.

I used to think it was odd. I didn’t care much. I understand it a little better now.

My coat is my only friend.
My hammock wraps me like a turquoise and grey cocoon while I hold the plaid garment, wishing it meant more than it did. Yellow, navy, brown, green, I like colors ... except I won't be emerging a butterfly, and it's not really my coat. I remember this, what it's like to break. At least I'm more prepared this time, so it didn't catch me by surprise. I've been busy, which is both good and bad, but my timing feels awful still. I'm out of sync, which means we're out of sync.

I'm both more and less observant than I'd like.

I saw the blue and orange key on the bookshelf.

I saw the movie case, about friends.

I saw the screen saver.

I saw the picture taken.

I saw the cards.

I heard the question.

I noticed the compliment.

I saw the folded drawing.

I saw the watch.

A little smile, sometimes a muted laugh.

Sometimes Pain, straight to my heart.

I say nothing.

Possibly it started with a simple story, one I've told quite a few times, but my lies are through omission, not what I say in the stories but what I don't, that's often most devastating to me.

I danced through the acid rain while trying to tell each story, drying my scars before they burn too intensely, while being told I shouldn't have to feel those wounds anymore as I miss a few drops and they slide down my face and into the corner of my mouth, silently. Pain tastes like salted peppermint today. However ... that being true doesn't mean I get to choose all the time. Our weak points are prominent, and powerful against us.

It's like editing a book, maybe? An extra pause here, a slight change in tone not portrayed on the page correctly ?
The downfall happens in the same manner, small, insignificant, unknowingly, though, still ...

That's not way to stop it, that can't be it...
In a one-sided way, it really doesn't solve any of your problems.
It’s selfish enough to make you fail everyone,

but, I'm tired...

besides, if it doesn’t work— I stick a piece of metal under my hat

we can always try again...

I taste bad candy.
but I know what happens next...

my body aches