all the words i could have said, the apologies that died thick, poisoned by my spleen. all the truths i should have told, as the world tried to end around us. all the regrets i said i didn't have. the silence that cloaked us, the heat that burnt our nerve endings, our synapses.
all the times it could have been different.
was it my fault? when i tore down the sky, when i condemned God. when i opened my mouth. when i bought into repetition as a literary device of merit. was it my fault?
as children we were emperors, lords, ladies, baronesses, paupers, theives, sailors, pirates, military men, mermaids, pilots, librarians, accountants. we had vast possibilites, value, worth, as children.
endless filler. because as an adult, the possibilities and the value and the worth are harder to grasp if the dollar doesn't give you wet dreams.