24.
date: 07 November 2011
time: 8:18 AM
You forget sometimes, about breathing. About seeing. You forget your fingers, your see through skin, your elbows, and your two hundred and six bones. I've spent so much time forgetting, trying not to see. A whale died a few days ago, a ship struck him and his insides withered away. So close to home, only an hours boat ride from my bedside. You think you can blind yourself to the world by covering your eyes with locks of hair, but the wind will come sooner or later and then you will be windswept, waiting with salt-water stains down your cheeks. I once was petrified, all amber glazed and frozen. The world looks like honey when you've lived inside a stone for thousands of years. I'd rather it looked like milk, like snow that has wept from the branches of wilting evergreens. Can't we just float down the river and count to ten? Will we be safe? I'm afraid if we don't, they'll come. The Takers of Hearts, the thieves with their broken teeth and apple red grins. Do you see them? If you don't draw circles around yourself or breath softly or I Spy ten moths in one day, they'll come. Look out for long spindly things, they're the Takers hiding behind closed doors, behind trees, behind aitches, ems and double-yu's. I'm trying to remember, to see, I think if I do, they won't come. I don't want to be lost any longer. I'll place myself inside of a book, in hopes that one day you will cry over me and my pages will dampen from the oceans inside of you.
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