Snake.

Your voice, like acid, poisons my ears.
Sending me writhing and contorting on the floor.
You have this effect on me.
I can't control it.
I can't deny it.
I can't argue against it.
It's undeniable.
You are a snake.
Threatening to strike,
to maim,
to kill.
I am your puppet.
Defenseless to your charm,
your charisma,
you.


Bri.

Breakfast at Tiffany's.

Holly Golightly once said she had the mean reds. The mean reds are horrible.
"Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of."

I feel like Holly.
I'm scared. Terrified.
And I can't pinpoint it to one specific reason.

Maybe it's the future that's looming just in front of me.
Maybe I'm afraid of losing you.
Maybe I'm afraid I'll never be worth anything to you.

But.

The future is going to come whether I like it or not.
I've already lost you, so I can't lose you again.
I'll never be perfect, and that's just a simple fact.

So, what am I afraid of?
Why do I wake up every morning with the "mean reds"?
Why do I carry them in my chest like my nervously beating heart?

I'm not sure.
I'm not sure of anything anymore.
All I know, is that I'm terrified.
And I don't know why.


Bri.

Choices.

Pulse beats. Erratically. Loudly. Threatening to tear the pasty flesh above.
Sweat drips. Every pore leaks, moistening the skin.
Crouch on the ledge. See the cracks. The crevices breaking the surface.
Only veins of yesterday. Of what was. What used to be.

You. You're faced with a choice.
Sit and stare at the creases of time. Pour over every possible mistake, memory.
Or jump. Free fall, leap off of the cliff.
Move on.
Live or die.
Perish or forgive.

The choice is yours.


Bri.