Strain.

My fears climb up my spine like spiders. 

My hair is in tangles along with my stomach. 

Music doesn't sound half as nice as it used to.

My muscles and nerves and tendons are stretching to be closer.

I want to feel your bones on my bones.

Heavy.

Dunk my head in a tub of my own forgiveness. 

You can hold me steady beneath my own weight of fear. 

I'm gasping for breath and clawing at the sky. 

The world is quieter under my own weight.

Six feet.

I went to a funeral today. It's got me thinking about death. I feel like Maude. The only yellow umbrella surrounded by mourning black umbrellas.

It's odd, planning a funeral for someone who is still alive. Asking a breathing man what kind of flowers he wants when he's six feet beneath the ground. Getting his opinion on what songs should be sung while he's deaf and dead in a closed casket. I can't imagine how badly it must have terrified him, having people swarm around, busy planning his ceremony of death.

I'm not asking for too much when I die, but I want to be cremated. I want to be planted with a seed to grow a tree. Maybe my bones will grow with a tree someday, and when someone cuts it down, they'll see and they'll know.

I want to donate anything I can to save others. I want to give my eyes to somebody who needs it. Maybe if they have my eyes, they'll dream of my memories, they can see what I saw when their eyes are shut.

Second chance.

When my body goes, plant me with a tree so I can keep growing. You'll feel a rush every time the leaves begin to fall.

Vacancy.

I feel like melting and seeping through the cracks in the floor.



I feel as if my mind is vacant and my heart hallow.



The heat burning through my skin only seems to drain me from myself.

I want to live inside your delicate bones, melt into you like a second skin, I want to love you so terribly.

A toast.

Here's to the end of another shitty year we'll one day be strangely nostalgic for. Drink up!