We couldn't let go but confessions were swallowed as well. We couldn't say it.Too sacred to voice how we felt. Strangulation perhaps. That's the closest. Us is not the suitable word anymore. I am an extension of you; you are an extension of me. And the knife that is going to tear us apart is getting sharper and sharper as we sand it's blade. Every word a piece of the sandpaper. But we are not connected by flesh and blood. Are we? We could just part ways. Wave goodbye. Let go of eachother's hand. Yet I can't. So I wait for the knife to cut through our intervened fingers. Sounds like an amputation one will probably survive from. But I might bleed to death as a result.
But what am I without my yearning? An empty shell of a person? Only able to feel, to breathe, when I'm gasping for air to spell out the misery a decibel louder. As if everything that makes me human shuts down. Only able to turn back on when the fire that sets my being on fire becomes unbearable and I'm forced to puke every itching word on a piece of paper.
