Words are like water. They flow from the mouth as if it were a waterfall.
They cause rain in the form of teardrops to roll down the mountains
that are your cheeks. They cloud your vision like a bad storm
and they break away pieces of your heart with erosion.
Of course there are ways to keep yourself dry, but none of them are
permanent and some don't even help. So I tend to stay inside my
body of a home and in the living room where my brain is located.
I tend to lock the doors and watch the waterfall from the inside.
And after a while I realize that there is a torrential downpour
inside of my home. Water is coming from the living room and from down
the hall and from outside. I realize that I'm terrible at keeping dry, s
o I might as well try to float. But I know that I can only butterfly stroke for
so long before I finally give up on the thought of actually becoming a butterfly.
So then I begin to panic, like a faucet the sputters, which only makes things
worse, but I keep trying to stay above the water because God knows that's
what life’s about. Trying to stay afloat in the world that is made up of only water.
And finally I get tired and the words that come to kiss the shore of my broken
heart begin to roll in large waves that crash over my dwindling hope
until it drags all of it away again. All I can do is watch as it disappears and
wish that when the water calms down, when it comes to hug the shore with
a light embrace that it will slip the hope right back into the cracks.
Because I'd rather be breathing than drowning and if that means always
staying a little damp, then I will throw away all of my towels and swim right
into the middle of the ocean. Without being afraid of the inevitable waves of
uncertainty and future words because it would be impossible to suffocate
with broken lungs.