Evian-Silverwind

Every time something is added, something else is taken away until nothing I now own was originally mine And every thought, or feeling has been borrowed, swapped, or stolen And every memory is only badly placed words inked onto scraps of paper that run under the spill of my tears, because their place within my blood vessels and neurotransmitters has been altered by the memory of something else; pushed aside, forced into corners and moulded to shapes they don't fit, bound by keys snapped in half by ironmongers whose only speciality is fitting locks.

Days like these drag out for so long that you only wish you could put an end to all days, just to end days like these. Days when every minute is an hour, and the metronomic ticking of the clock burns every second into your brain as though it is to be remembered, until you are waiting for the next and cannot sleep through counting out each second, as though it is something to be endured. Days like these, you cannot move for having exhausted every limb, and you only wish that you could fathom more to think about, because you have exhausted every topic, and every repeat leaves you scratching at the inside of your he

There is a dead man who sleeps in my bed and watches with unseeing eyes whilst I dream of other men. His sucher-shut lids don't cast light me now, but burn through my own as though they are light itself. There is a dead man who steals my shoes and follows me down roads he has never walked. If I take the train, he'll sit beside me and I stumble as he stubs my toes, kicks my ankles, trips me up. His muted voice is flat, monosyllabic, repeats rhythmically the same words and his dead stare is unyielding, holding me in his eyes. His nerves and neurotransmitters can't spark to process thought, but occupy mine as though they are my own. His arm

Some days you feel as though you want the world, others just a six-foot plot to die in. Some days you feel so capable of conquering it all, the next day you quit your job and drop out of college because you stumbled into some open grave and got stuck there a couple hours. You were so close to the center of the planet that you were only looking upward. You lost your footing and ended up falling off the edge. So you're sitting in an old friend's uni apartment. They're all drinking and laughing, because that's what they do. You should be doing the same, but you're sitting in the corner wishing you were dead because it seems like the only viable

Concrete crumbles, weeds grow through cracks, Creeping up under our feet like fingers, hopelessly Grasping at our ankles from their hold below the ground. We can't see them, but we know they are there. They are lifeless, lie lifeless, behind the closed doors of each tomb Either side of me, but I can't see them. I step lightly when I walk; all is quiet here. Footsteps resound, Echo off of stone walls that jut side by side, Standing ominous and overbearing, foreboding, Old crooked teeth in an old man's graveyard smile. All is quiet here. The only voice is the wind's, Whistling a hymn, or a love song; a eulogy For some forgotten sou