If you are drowning in a pool of your darkest thoughts, coughing blood and bawling thorns, I will not hesitate to leave if they call for me.
When you feel like your soul is being ripped into pieces and every breath is as hard as plowing snow after a five day blizzard, I will leave you like the red plastic balloon getting whisked away by the summer air–slowly and surely.
If they showed tears as salty as the afternoon sea, I will not look back even if you are trapped in a cage, unable to detach your wings from invisible chains.
When the whole universe feels so small and you don’t have the slightest idea where to put yourself so you sit up but you found out that you’re terrified of small spaces like they are terrified of their own thoughts and you began to count one, two, three.
One, two, three.
I’m sorry, but I will stop counting because you cannot feel this way. You, cannot feel this way.
You are supposed to be as tough as the winds created by thousands of tidal waves.
You are supposed to be as brave as a soldier who lost not only his legs but also himself due to ticking grenades.
You are supposed to be as magnificent as the man in the red cape–saving a little girl’s doll in a bright red house as each of its walls getting eaten by the flames like every inch of hope left in their system being emptied out into space.
Because you have to stop counting like she did. Counting off days, hours, minutes, and seconds until the pain passes away. Shrugging off every fucking tear, every fucking headache.
But even if your light is dying, I cannot let their weary strings go–even if you have to continuously close your eyes and endure the pain.
I’m sorry. Just a little more.
One, two, three.