There is something about a dark house in the morning you love immensely.
The entire world misses out on the awakening sun and you know what triumph is, you capture it best at this hour.
On this particular morning you also know (all too well) the agonizing pains of your ear. It’s eating itself. It’s dissolving. It’s eroding from all that acid you thought to listen to
during a slight infatuation. It won’t matter how much you’ve tried to ignore it. It’s there- dripping with the sweet, sweet smell of pain both of the inner ear and of the heart.
You can stand neither the smell nor the acceptance of your fate.
And so you will keep in the purple sky, before the silhouette of a naked tree in hopes to avoid its agony and its torment.
You hope they will never find you there.
But!
Sometimes you wonder if you’re capable of bringing this upon yourself or if you only wish you were proficient enough to do so.
The trouble is- you’re so fucking good at convincing yourself of pulling away.
You’re confident enough to convey your justifications as truths.
