the flame of my being is suffocating and i’m the one smothering it

god loved me enough to give me the ability to replicate, but not to create.

the songs that echo through through my mind are never my own; my voice carries the melody of others, but any attempt to compose and my fingers crack and blister at the touch of piano keys. my voice dies in my throat before even given a chance to sing. this follows drawing; if i stare at anything long enough, my hands can eventually recreate it to the speck; though my pen bleeds and dwindles at the possibility of my own work. and so it goes, that my creations are just collages of others. i am a collection of everything i have ever known and loved, yet my heart beats in my chest like a bird in a cage too small. incessant flapping turned to an insistent rhythm, even with crumpled wings, feathers mangled. will an attempt to create myself erase/untangle what i’ve built? wer bin ich wirklich?

2/6

can we tell i’ve been blasting the moon will sing on repeat.. i love the crane wives