my ribs are made of iron, they're always twisted up in knots. with twenty one years of rearranging, impatiently, you plead, "try to open up, is it so hard to open up?" but it's only getting colder; more difficult to breathe. did you hope that I would leave? 'cause It's not that I don't want to, I'd give anything to be free of this tomorrow. I can't force you to speak. If only I could relax myself while I drive, or lose myself in drinks and lights. sustain the idea that sometimes, you think of me. sapphire, you think of me. sometimes.