Staring out at the horizon line across a stretch of miles that seem to remain for eons,
looking for something to see,
but nothing to look at.
Eyes full of tendencies to search for one thing she’s able to hold onto,
but she just isn’t.
The longing feeling of absolutely needing to have found something,
settling in the depths of the cold body, that’s supposed to be hers.
Stopping the depression that takes over so many,
being necessary for some to live.
Bringing awareness to how people are feeling so they don’t need to think they’re alone,
A wooden box trapping the blood flow, that used to seep out of the cracks,
but now just fills the box, with the pressure until eventually she is going to break.
Another box. Restart.
The pale yellow desk,
putting the same force onto the stack of notebooks staring incomplete,
as the blank paper puts back onto the surface.
Words aren’t words anymore,
as they’ve started depending on her being able to spell them correctly.
Letters stopped being letters at the same time that pressure stopped being a physical act.
The beginning of what felt like the next amazing thing
turning out to only be what holds her down under the ground.