Dripping

Dripping

Drip.

Something inside me rings hollow. For the last 2 months I’ve been thinking, a lot.

Drip.

But that thinking has led to nowhere, and to the same place again and again.

Drip. Drip.

I’ve been dreaming, a lot. But I always wake up and come to the realization that everything is different now.

Drip.

I’ve been wracking my brain for something to write about, besides the painfully obvious series of events that I know led to this whirlpool of depression.

Instead, I hear silence. Quiet. Maybe I choose to.

Drip.

Something inside of me has shut off. And I can’t find any comfort in spilling my guts on to a blank page. The flow is too heavy. The emotions too strong.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

There is so much to say. But this conversation always ends the same way: with my face wet, soaking in tears, sorrow hanging off me like a chandelier.

And I am so tired of the downpour.

I’ve boarded up the windows, locked the door, and settled myself in.

Now I wait for something to change. For time to push me past this moment into something new.

Drip.

But I keep leaking.

 

 

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