Oxygen feels hypnotic in my lungs. I want to be mesmerized by the alluring grasp of everything I cannot see—the breeze trickling across my fingertips, ears, and knees—and God always whispering to me, “Oh, I am free.”
The Collectors of the Sea are calling out, “Don’t forget about me,” and every day demands to be filled with romance, routine, and rarity—a tug at every nook and cranny of my engrossed soul.
I am a library of unread books and burnt edges. Life will ask me to breathe into it, not the other way around. Softness will creep into the ponds of emotion that make up sixty percent of me, and our laughter will echo a symphony, like the chambers of the Vatican in retired cathedrals.
I will choose things that go against the nature of my fear because I know they are good for my memory, and they will become stories etched into the walls of my mind.
And I will dance with God, and He with me. He will remind me I am His carefully curated creation, and that every curve, crease, and cave is not only for temptation.
Some days, I’ll be on the brink of madness because the blood cannot decide where it belongs—inside of me or in this dead tree.
Let’s not forget that even unfinished paintings are beautiful, as your mind can lead its own way, and every kiss will be signed like a love letter in disguise.
I will live truthfully and fruitfully, embedded in the roof of your mouth, and you’ll remember there is no such thing as a kiss that is unconditional.
And as prose chokes us and demands our attention, drowning us in untethered words, words so damned you’ll be haunting the sea floor —
Was that you knocking at the door?
When you entrance yourself with literature, you will find me in empty spaces, like a hidden danger.
And the moon now drips with honey. Though it attracts no bees, its sweetness was meant only to bring me to my knees.
a work in progress 
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