wound song

too easily I cave! I wound myself, while I try to gather sutures. I won't slip into these tenses.

but before I begin, I tried reading quotes—am I the one that feels nothing? I get more of torment, a violent song. I remain hopeful, but the hopeful quotes instill no rare colour. I was hoping I would not need to write—a good quote could bear the spark, but here I am, pressing myself to a chair as hard as I can.

(I don't like the apologies in the writing, not here.)

so I was not going to break tonight. I had a day that did not start, a quick drug already spent.

(and, see, I'm—still—not—here. I want to show my voice.)

this means nothing tomorrow. so why can't I strike it out. no, I won't ask questions, no, I won't apologise. I am trying to navigate myself around the war tonight. one half of my head holds the crippling poison. it turns bird flight to ash. it turns reflections of light—to pluck away the eyes.

Darkness, I name you. I can keep writing, and you can't stay. you might think you've won again this evening, but I am still noticing, and I still know my palms.

you have been hurt worse than this, and you have remained alone longer than now. you have had so little hope, and so you hold no—I WILL MAKE HAPPINESS. THERE WILL BE SOUND. SUCH FUCKING SOUND. DO YOU THINK YOU COULD STAND LOUDER THAN THIS?

mend: these things do not bring you to end.