Autunno

I'm falling, and it's like cocaine. This pen flows more easily when it's wet, and I'm not sure if that's a metaphor or not. I know that when I can't breathe, I can write. And I know that my blood flows through the pen and onto the page. Almost like this depression is a guilty pleasure. Like that of stealing, or preaching hypocrisy, my mouth says one thing, but my head begs to differ. the other night I lay down, and my speakers were broken, so all I could do was listen. So I closed my eyes and I tried to sleep, but my heart trying to escape its bone cage was too much for my bare chest to handle, so I just thought. Like I was told to.