Sometimes there are places where it seems like the sun does not even exist. You think to yourself it must be curled up somewhere in a cloud, hiding dirty and becoming raw. Will it ever break off to suck me up, or am I being tricked?
There was a day I used to write just to keep myself from sleeping, now is the day I write to keep myself alive.

you're a fool spinning smoke

i'm not trying to write pretty anymore, i am really just trying to spit my soul out. Mostly because it hurts to swallow and my stomach is turning itself.

I woke up at 3:30am burning from the inside out, a fever was taking hold of me and so i attempted to cool off my body. Stumbling into the bathroom I coughed up my lungs, trying to breath in dry air. I was unsuccessful. So I drowned my tears in too much medicine, laid my head down by his feet and closed my eyes. Still unable to breath and holding ever so dearly to his legs while stuffing my brain with what the next days would be bringing me. Hopes of only a clear throat, circulated oxygen, and a light chest.
I am sure the day is dead soon.

i have an afternoon today

I live in some mellow sort of city where lights are very yellow against hazy clouds. There are two mountains diagonally from one another with tips covered in snow, ice, and sleet. Below those two mountains lie the Willamette River with bridges so glorious and long you would never know when you made it to the other side because sometimes you're following the scenery instead. Traveling on that bridge is a young lady with blue eyes and a scratchy throat, that young lady is I. Sick again in the midst of an afternoon traveling across the Willamette River on a bridge, two mountains so white to look up at, and this rigid feeling inside of my chest. I am coughing up the everyday and breathing in the ocean. You'd think by now my insides would be worn out, however I still have time to spare. Sleeping a twelve hour night and swallowing pills that don't seem to be working. For now I will press my face to the cold glass with rain hitting the outside. The window shivering like myself and the world just eating me up for the eighteenth time, but at least it's a new part of the world to taste.