Flood.

I'm to that point where I don't know what to do other than bleed my silence. On myself. Not onto you. I'm a desert without you. I have little life. I try, don't think that I don't. But I often mix my words with memories and I am exposed to the radiation of your nuclear power plant, an evacuated wonder. My words are dust - I cannot be revived. Every ocean you created inside of me has disappeared, and there is nothing but craters where you used to swim and laugh as you filled my world with potential.

Where am I supposed to go from here when the past is a sun lodged in my throat... I can't exhale it. I can't deny its heat. It burns me. I should be used to it. Yet I can't escape the torridity it teases me with, the possibility of nothing more with you.

Because I'd rather have a sky of darkness in my soul than a heart sucked dry, wheezing on the ground waiting for dreams that will never surface - for a promise of the future, the promise of a

Flood.

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Written 9/10/15 @ 8:29 PM