In my dreams





I inhale grey smoke,



testing my lungs




to see how much




they can take before
they turn grey
and
collapse.


Even in my dreams
I face the constant struggle
of numbing the pain.

I open a book
in search of myself
but
the words

no longer hold meaning,
for I cannot make sense of anything
anymore.

I write
to fix myself,
in hopes that I will be
set free.

I run
until my cheeks turn
bright pink,
and my ribcage stabs me
so fiercely
that I must
bend
forward
to
brace myself
and come to a sudden
stop.

I do not think there is a cure
for this kind of heartbreak,
except to wait patiently.







Sadly,
patience is not a virtue
that I was blessed
with.