Everything I seem to write is bloated with sadness.

The mechanism that runs inside me is oiled up with all the grease of my melancholy. I would let the pen dance on a paper, and watch as the ink bleed tears and all the unsaid apologies I had harvested on nights my screams laid trapped in a pillow.

My lungs are tequila drenched sand bags, and yet every time I submerge myself in water...