Your Elixir is my Poison
Sometimes I wish that I could stop noticing everything, trying so hard to mend everything broken with shattered pieces of my own soul and turning it into a piece of art. I wish I could stop looking for a meaning in everything imperfect; like in cracked sidewalks and plucked petals of flowers, crushed under the feet of thousands of people who never stop to admire the beauty. In featherless birds who don't get the warmth they deserve and in random patterns that form on page when you leave a pen for too long and the ink starts to spread, and in the lies that you had woven so skillfully. In broken seashells that no longer anyone collects and torn giftwraps that everybody tosses into dustbins. Sometimes I wish I could just let it be and stop trying so hard to fix everything broken, because no matter how hard I try, I still can't pick every broken piece of myself up and will it to be perfect, and I can't stop, what others call elixir, from running as poison through my veins.