limbo.

i feel this ectoplasmic wreck build up inside me, like dark marshlands in my veins.
packed there,
with the sorrow
and the sugar
and the fat
and the memories
and the sickness
and the anxiety
and the hatred
and the frustration
and i build it up and up and up
and up.
because building is what i do well.
better than building, i know how to
Break.
i break well, like a little child.
but only after i eat storms after storms after storms.
and when i break,
and when i scream;
everything must come rushing out of me,all the words, the stories, the lies, the need to
TELL.

my fear is this:
when i break,
which i know i will,
for i always do,
what if my veins are empty and there are no words?

falling apart is all well done.
then what happens of me while i lie cracked on the floor
unable to find anyway to put myself together again?