White Tiles
You sit with me on the bathroom floor. It is the quietest place I can find, and I fill it with noise.
You listen (you always do) to my salty sobs, echoing against the tiles, bouncing right back to where they came from.
You tell me to breathe. It's easier for you. I want you to know that it hurts to inhale. It hurts to feel. It hurts to be the comforted, never the comforter. Sometimes, it hurts to be.
You breathe into my neck, slowly, steadily. You crouch beside me, patient, knowing, exhaling strength. I want to breathe you in, but I can't. Not today.
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I love words. I love putting them together and seeing what happens. They are my soul on paper. Through them, I hope to discover truth, create beauty, and inspire change.
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