I am writing this because it is the only way I know how to breathe these days. Lately, my origami lungs have been folded into anchors, and it is taking everything in me not to sink to the bottom again. I know why people name storms now. It is easier to handle your destruction when you have someone to blame. But my hands are too weak to point fingers this time. There is proof everywhere on my body that I have been through this before. There is proof everywhere on my body that I have survived. I am learning not to need permission to get better. And I swear I never wanted the pills. I never wanted the grey. Or the emptiness. Or the ache. All I wanted was a poem or two. All I wanted was my hand to stop trembling long enough for me to write one.
Y.Z, Origami lungs (via rustyvoices)