Empty promises and open bottle litter the floor and I smash them with my boots. I let them crunch under my feet at this ungodly hour but the music is still playing and we haven’t gotten any noise complaints yet. Breathe out the empty. I know I’m not good at this, I know I should be better at this, have been better at this.

In the wake of the night, in the heat of the morning we are slaves to this thing we call life.

We have been bruised and broken because we were never told that the callouses on our hands are the mark of good work. They are the mark of good work they are good things.

We sit perched on the mountains of madness, everything ready to fall away fall apart, fall into something unrecognizable.

We are the thing that we fear the most.

We are the old and the broken except we are not. We are young but we are getting there.

Can you feel it when you wake up in the morning? Are your bones a little more brittle, are your dreams a little darker, a little smaller?

A little less bright than they were when you were seventeen and you said you were going to be something special but now you live in the house everyone thinks is beautiful. You sold that soul to get it.

You put that version of yourself in a bottle and you said wait for me okay, wait for me with no air, but don’t go away.

Don’t suffocate. Just wait for years and years and years until I give you permission to take a breathe again.

Just wait.

I put my heart in a jar in the corner and said wait.

I put everything I had on hold because there were supposed to be responsibilities but that’s a violent word don’t you think?

Because it just means responsible to everything and anything that you gave everything away to keep.

I am running, I am running full speed and I do not know how to make my feet stop moving, make them stop pushing, make them stop wishing.

Matthew Henry


A Short Conversation is a collection of stories, thoughts, and general musing. I like to write like I'm slamming a door; loudly, and with purpose.

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