The Cake Batter is Melting.

I'm uncomfortable. Tights are twisted, ears are cold, lips are dry. The butterflies residing in my stomach are constant inhabitants. More like birds, I would say. Fly away, fly away little birds. Please find a nest elsewhere. Turn the weary lemon sky black with your feathered wings.

The face in the moon gives me an eerie feeling, terror smothers ecstasy, I urge myself to laugh it off. It's difficult, letting go when someone has become so recurring. Is it fair to hold on primarily because of that familiarity? I continually tell myself no. When background noise has become routine, natural, consistent; it’s unnerving to grasp the silence. Nervous expectancies weighed down impulsive messages, awkward wooden chairs left me feeling splintered. And for.. what? Blissful history? The cake batter is melting. Time alters everything. Irony has slithered its way into persistent matters, mocking indecisiveness. The peril of misfortunes destroy formerly poised balances, the sixteenth year. Growth, progression, advancements. Within myself I find these qualities have escalated. Decay poisons exhausted opinions. I'm left with unanswered questions. What I prayed it was, it isn't. Birds fill empty cavities once again; find a nest elsewhere. Fly away, fly away little birds.