you aren't at school today

I have a hard time believing
how my mind is plunging into ice cold lakes while my hands are re-enacting the earthquake of 1977. my lungs have taken their last look over the edge and plunged (hold your breath it's not done by a long shot).
i'm walking on two very honest catastrophic emotions, piled on top of stilts, on top of air. take one glance at the seismic charts and see where i stand among the the worst of the worst of the hurt.
and then, like a beacon of the longest forgotten hero of the deepest urban terrain, i heard the news. fire has sprung up from the pores of your throat and you don't have the means of the ocean or the swifts of the river to get you any closer.
my half-empty glass of water was on the verge of tipping today until it was discovered to be glued to the table, unable to manage the downpour it had so uncontrolably planned.
i honestly thought, for the angriest of seconds, you had left the revolver unlocked in the bureau and it acted of it's own will.
this experience has torn me from the outside in, clawing away at the concrete walls (resourting, at times, to knock me backwards). you, who are coated in symbolism and metaphors that keep you from the icing bites of winter has discovered me.
discovered my heart. discovered my time capsule buried and melted with the veins of my chest. i love you, is what i'm really trying to say.