Another morning, another lead weight in that corner of your core that has never forgotten the darkness. You try to ignore it, try to find feathers in fantasy, draw yourself to a trick of the lights like a moth careening to its fiery death. A little voice in the silence behind your rib cage whispers of salvation, tries to tell you that you already know the way to the surface. Your words lie scattered along the wayside, but a few of them get tossed together by a chance whirlwind in the gutter, form a sentence, remind you.
For too long you have ignored the words that swirl around like a dust bowl in your gut, have let them gather and stick to your flesh, seal the paths that lead air to your lungs. Spin them instead into rope, hold them outside your self, hold them like a lifeline in a dark sea.
The little voice in the silence behind your rib case becomes clear. Says, hold them like the surface is on the other end.
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