four words.

Always.

There's always something to be scared of. I know it's wrong of me to fear, but sometimes I cannot escape my skin and let my brave soul take over. I believe I have the right to be wrong when I tell my ears I’m not okay. I trust my hope, but my shaking hands are clumsy and I tend to drop it. Each time, little pieces break off. I glue them back on, but I’m not sure my hope is the same as it was when I first found it.

Forever.

Even though it's been forever since I've been shaking under covers trying to hide from monsters under the bed... I'm still hiding. Even though there's nothing to be scared of. I can feel the weight of my calamity piling up in my chest; it hurts. But it’s okay. It will pass, as all things do.

Trouble.

I'm always trying to forget about the trouble that chases me. but I run out of breath too quickly—too often; I need rest. Some nights I think long and hard about what dreams I would like to have. But I wake up unsatisfied with the meaningless blurs of stories I’ve just awoken from.

Bottle.

I often put my dreams in a bottle and throw them out into the sea… only to have them wash up at my feet again. I can feel the weight of my decisions rush over me as I bend down to pick up the empty glass bottle. I realize I have been here before, so why do I keep coming back after all that has happened? Honestly, I’m not sure.