On some nights my home shakes with the wind. Threatening to topple over and twirl with the blizzard. It takes punches for me and I am thankful. Because some homes resemble holey blankets and concrete sidewalks.
Some nights my toes numb as I suffocate myself beneath the layers, underground some nights I wish. For survival and if the universe is feeling giving, a sense of comfort. Some nights I find my vessel shaking as my base does, some nights, leaving my vessel with cramped joints on vibrate. Honey I’m can’t afford to be cold, I’m surviving. I force myself to stay still, but only for a moment because my body knows that this isn’t about comfortability, it’s about survival.
Survival doesn’t care if some nights my thoughts poses a threat to my mind. Survival doesn’t care if you cry yourself to sleep, wishing to drown away, wondering if your tear ducts would hold you. He doesn’t care if people stare. He really doesn’t give a fuck. He isn’t bothered with addiction, withdrawal, or a broken heart. To see the sun once more, to take one more breathe is his only concern. And for that I am in love with him, I have to be, in order to see another day, to continue to be. Some nights I wish to break up with him and I would pray to grow the courage, to say fuck surviving. I’m tired of walking against the wind. Earthquakes scare me and I don’t want to be alone. This small space is strangling me and reminds me of my misfortune and I no longer need what I needed. NO longer want what I wanted but to cease. Yet comes witching hour, my eyes closed, lungs holding small long breathes. Then everything is gone. And life doesn’t exist here. I can climb through many dimensions and find paradise and smile.
Some nights my home shakes beneath me to the rhythm of my body. Am I must remind myself I’m need to survive. I’m need to live.
Freegrandmaa 