I am lost. My mirrors can’t even find me. I read Plath and Sexton and I recognize their sorrow. I listen to Elliott Smith and I get it. I hear the melancholy sighs in his songs even when he isn’t literally sighing. I lay like concrete on the floor, like a bird with fallen wings. I can’t fly. It’s not just the world breaking me, it is me breaking my own heart. My world, beautiful trees on fire and whales wrapped in plastic. I can’t shake the thoughts. I am so tired of being. Just being. My heart is halfway damn gone.
