days blend to months but sometimes only weeks. i read a lot of beautiful things that make me want to write about sunsets and cheap wine and that feeling you get when people you love love you back but i am too quickly reminded that my voice sounds more like thick cherry cough syrup than the wind whispering through any meadow. i am so clunky. tongue thick from the words i never said. words perfectly packaged with a tidy red bow in my head become shredded newspaper wrappings on the floor in front of me. i do my best to fit the pieces back together but i only ever make things worse forming words never written on the pages to begin with. frustrated with the fact that nothing comes out clearly i shove my mess under the bed and let it rot there. ink fades and corners curl. coffee stains from blissful mornings grow mold and mildew. days blend to years but sometimes only months. i clean out the trash lurking beneath my mattress forgetting it once held such beautiful things.