feeling feelings is too easy of a feat. not feeling them is the task. how inhumane you have to become to fall out of the rabbit hole that your mother called love. waking with raw eyes, sleeping with a tight stomach. your passions no longer your passions, because let’s be honest, they were the fire in your writing, the voice in your painting, the entirety of your mind; morning, noon, and night. the sun, moon, stars, meteorites rocketing down in your mind over and over again. repeatedly leaving craters all over your body. they left their mark and you can’t seem to scrub hard enough in the shower to make them disappear. you can’t seem to keep up with your shadow, because these days it seems to be standing taller than you. see. you wilt as if you haven’t been watered and you refuse just anyone’s hydration. you need your passion’s water. you need that familiar breath. the steady breath because yours is just too unsteady lately. it’s riddled with threats of tears in your throat. but you don’t cry right? that’s what you told everyone.
