Everything has led up to here
and it’s gone. Withered and blown away. Buried under the quiet words of a ghost, “it wasn’t supposed to be so hard.” I’m not the byproduct of living, I’m the inconvenient sum of dying parts. To say something productive would be sunlight. To mean something beautiful would be meaningful. To exist happy would be ideal if it were someone else’s to hold. I am diminished, I am broken, I am lost, I am Jesse. Nothing more, mostly less.
