They told a story.
About two people. Boy and girl.
Walking through life, just like normal people.
Until one day their paths crossed.
And everything changed.

Houses

I build my houses out of various mediums.
Sometimes I carve out decorative pieces of wood. Calloused hands chopping pieces. Chopping until it's the right size. I slowly shave off slivers. Sanding until it's smooth. Nailing together just the right pieces, so they fit perfectly.
Sometime I wet sand. Two buckets of water for every bucket of sand. Measured out to the perfect amount where sand can stick. I mold it in my hands, it slowly gaining shape and structure in my fingertips. I flatten out the ceilings and floors, and dig out pools and tubs.
Sometimes I build card houses. Bending them ever-so-slightly, I lean them up against each other. Patience. Patience. Patience. I steady my hands and stack the cards--single numbers on the bottom, royalties on top. I imagine Yurtle the Turtle looking down on the turtles below him trapped in mud, or the Tower of Babel growing taller and taller.
Sometimes I stack Lincoln Logs. Previously indented, no work needed. I stack them in order, creating a square of protection. Simple. Sturdy. Common. It makes me feel organized and clean. This house is easy.

I always watch as they fall. Wood being set on fire. Waves crashing over my sand castle. A breeze blowing the kings and queens off their thrones to be beside the mere commoners on the ground. Logs moved to be out of place--having no order or support.
There's nothing I can do to stop the destruction. My walls are tumbling down. My houses falling open.
I'm exposed.

It's late.
I'm watching the numbers grow larger...
trying to take my mind somewhere else.

It's working.

Choking.

Harder than I want it to be.

Harder than I ever expected.

At one point I thought it was okay.

The noose around my neck appearing as though it was completely off my head.

But the reality was that I just couldn't feel it.

That night the fibers were felt around my neck--an itchy twist that couldn't be shaken off.

I hated it. I hate it.

The restraint, the squeezing, the inability to move; it's an overwhelming weight.

I'm dragging. I'm struggling.

I'm ready to make it stop.

A Blink in the Shape of an I.

When for art thou day shall come
I shall be the happy one.
For in my heart I’ll finally feel
The truth one’s mind cannot reveal.
The truth that logic doth protest
Where sense is lost and pride is less.
My folly to be my once closed heart
Once locked up fear, that will depart
No other word is quite described
Than love, no longer petrified.