I can't even cry because the emotions would be too heavy to carry and the days between white walls have washed emotion away As I wait for the next meal, a blankness blankets the day As I heal from every interaction it feels like a ripped off band-aid As I yearn for solitude
And this is the only place I can be completely real Instead of picking through unharvested thoughts thinking of pasts, futures, missing the now and still, I'm waiting for things to feel.
A piece of paper, pinkish, on it written some aspect of our lives. It was found deep down, under all those layers of thick skin that took us years to build, under blood cells moving through our veins. It was found beneath muscle, bone, and the breath that kept our body moving. In fact you couldn’t even see it. The paper was invisible to modern microscopes it was so small, and yet there it rested, just a small shredded piece of paper, pinkish. It was a small shred of doubt, a love letter, laying underneath these layers of human, and something about its presence told us to observe ourselves from afar. It seemed godly, an out of body experience, and finally we could see what was written on that tiny paper through our plain eyes. And whether the meaning of it’s words began to fade or become more saturated, we started to see the larger picture around us, and for the moment, it saved us.