To the Waters and the Wild

J is making little streams trickle down her wrists again. I don't think i can bear it for much longer. The silence, the quite sense of waiting that clings to the air. I'm not sure anymore, not sure what i'm waiting for or who i'm waiting on. 

January holds unrest where it used to hold calm. New numbers to the date but still the same feeling holding on. I thought I would have lost it when the clock stroke twelve, but was it only another witching hour on the great grandfather clock. 

I want to fly away, far over the churning sea that storms like a tempest in my stomach. I long to lift up from the dark abyss and fly to the sun, if only I knew for sure if my feathered wings would melt or hold strong. Wax is a terribly fickle thing, you know. 

I wish the dreams of snowflakes and unicorn horns would shield me from the darkness, the darkness of things i'd rather not know or see or be. I don't know that light feathered bird anymore, all I see are black feathers and endless eyes. 

I suppose its what they all wanted, what would sooner or later be. "Owls must blend in with the darkest nights" they murmured. They are silently cheering, I can hear their whispers- I am certain. 


They revel in the bitter transformation, they inflict what was inflicted upon them. I am missing something now, as they all are. I loath myself as they despise themselves. It was inevitable, innocence is always lost and never truly regained. White feather never stay clean, for dirt sticks to wax as the shore meets the sea.