Leaving at my own leisure,
I treasure the fresh air,
the silence,
until I realise it is an illusion,
and I am in a revolving door of revolting devotion.
Mary Magdalene,
grieving over Jesus,
and all that could have been,
over and over again,
bracing for breaking,
the way I always do,
because I can’t trust myself,
not to throw myself into damned, dangerous waters.
I can’t swim,
but I love the water,
I can’t let go,
and I love tying myself in knots,
typing myself into turmoil.
I have a sixth sense,
that I often ignore,
an ancient warning,
that has been by my side,
through all of my wars,
but never enters the fight,
at my own insistence.
I know that I’ll cry,
until my inability to swim,
becomes a serious problem,
drowning in drastic renewals,
that always become the same steps,
when the sunlight shines upon them.
