Carry my sun.

The maddening desire to be vulnerable, the insipid taste of a reused teabag, the anger I've come to accumulate, tensing like a rubber band between two fingers.

 

I speak to myself when I'm found in trouble, I speak, voice-to-voice, with the clear and conscious desire of performing my dance without the guilt trip the anger has attached to my tail, entitling me to a comatose state every time I step forward from where I am.

 

I long and seek after, oh, I do. I do long for the day where I meet my own self in peace, where my head stops spinning and the wildly loud voice of my heart has finally decided to slow down and sing to me instead of indulging in a diatribe against my being. I am in deep awe, deep and constant awe of what the world has to offer and what is yet for me to be seen, but for now, I'd be content enough if I could only be able to cry my soul out and speak for the pains that clutter my throat. Oh, how I wish it was someone else and not my reflection the one who knows every detail of my existence; oh, how I wish it was you, my reflection, the one who carried me sun when the days went dark.