Sputter

Surviving is not living. It is waiting, maintaining, finding bubbles between the fingers that want me to drown today. Each moment is a struggle to not let myself die just yet. I must breathe, but these lungs are too wet! So I just do the motions and move my chest. Time is tangled up in brambles, slippery when sought. My arms are shredded, marked by the reaching for caught dreams, ripping at seams, fragile and transparent beads. See this heart? Beaten, but still beating. Wanton with the needing. Its whispers grow quieter with each passing day. There are holes with edges so jagged no hands can ever fill the emptiness inside. My darkness can not hide. The screams I hear are just too shrill to fight. Blunted blades cannot slice through the screaming quiet. Go ahead and try it. I am laying down my torch today.