It was quarter past two and I was finding words, scraping the ashen cinders under my rusty fireplace, emanating grey smoke draped in silence poisoned by my breaths. I stared into my heart, adorned with the crown carved out of pain and delicate flowers I beaded together with my frail fingers. The trunk stowed beneath my wounds, opened, revealing bows and arrows, which once I used to protect myself from the cruel world, but those are no longer useful, for I am my own enemy. The air filled with the scent of my decaying soul, entrapped deep within the unburied pasts I carry within my chest. Searching for a tinge of poetry and metaphors, I touched the abandoned art, drawn on the walls of my room and it blacked. I touched the poet's jasmine planted under my window sill and it withered. I touched the cherry little butterfly, fluttering on my gold nib quill and it fainted. I touched my old written poesies and proses and the ink evaporated, leaving both the pages of my journal and my face empty. Scrounging, I found a bundle of unsent letters under my bed, stamped with my tiny cursive signature. Slowly, I untied the knot and found myself hidden between those words, and suddenly there came a strong whip of wind, sweeping and scattering all of my letters, written by my poetic self to my paranoid self. I put my hands on my ears trying to avoid the darkness and loneliness around me, but my eyes dried out crying red (pain), for they wanted this ache to end, forever. Lavenders and lilies grew out of my mouth and as I tried to scream they withered, and kept regrowing, till I watered them with the stars I stole from the sky last night. At last, I took my quill and broke it with my bare hands, bleeding and sobbing, over the loss of my poetry and cremated my whole house out of grief.
/before i learned civility I used to scream ferociously Anytime i wanted/