you've been through hell. and instead of falling victim you stumble standing, asking if that's all hell's got.
in my mind, death fears you. when your alarm of life goes off, it grits it's teeth and slams on the snooze button giving you another day, another year. in my mind you can't leave me. you're impenetrable, although i've seen you poked and prodded. you're indestructible, even though i've seen you in pieces. in my mind you'll be here until it's okay for you not to be. my mind has made me into a fool.
in reality you probably have less than a year left. and i will crumble at your absence without completely rebuilding. i'm not even sure if i want to—i'm hopeless now and i'll be hopeless then. i'll be whisked into the arms of someone who'll never understand or try to. i'll hear your voice in a dream and wish to sleep eternally. i'll touch things you once loved and burn my hands in the process. i'll yearn for and loathe the person i used to be and the person i will become. the future is of inner turmoil and undiscovered feelings, of words left unsaid and actions done too soon. i apologize in advance, mom. i will probably not see you in paradise. i'm too comfortable in this disgrace, too free in this estranged vessel. i will mourn, convince myself that i've moved on, then dream of safety from myself in the form of a man. i will disappoint you.
