A sapphire robe of sadness wrapped around the body like a blanket coddling the mind as I pretend that I'm fine Paralysis captures the tongue as trauma wields silence as a weapon against those who are close protective measures to the extreme... do I even need them? My spoiled, unbearable aura resonates from the broken parts of me and as they vibrate they smother the parts of me that want to be good. My screams are quelled by a force greater than me the harder I resist the quicker I slip beneath the quicksand. My effort... I notice marginal improvements, but reality for the most part doesn't change despite what I've done. It's as if my existence cycles where I'm capable then I'm not, a constant fight to maintain control, yet, foolish, primitive impulses, warp the mind and contort my perception to the point I can't trust my decisions. It's almost whimsical to assume my life will ever be different I'd need something magic, but imagination is almost as painful as reality when it doesn't manifest and all you can do is pretend.
