slipping

Life is composed of open ends, but I feel like it's closing in on me. Somehow, I have turned mine into an ongoing manhunt of myself, in which discomfort and unlikely tragedy chase me throughout all hours of the day. It never catches me, and yet shallow breath catches in my throat, my throat closes, no one will be there to kiss me goodbye. So I weep. I pace the wooden floor. I tear at my own skin like unbalanced kittens on a scratching post.

Wasn't this all suppose to be beautiful. 

Wasn't I suppose to be free.

Didn't I promise myself that I wouldn't get stuck. 

I want to be good at being alone. I want to be the sun. Instead, I hide from myself. I wish I could remember what certainty tastes like. But I am afraid of turning red. Or blue. Or bitter. Really, I am afraid of it all. Of never crawling out of the nightmare. Of dying before I tell the truth. Of considering who I might have been had I not decided I was fated to dissolve without the guiding hands of someone who surely knows better.