melancholic marrowMature

There are times when I am full up with sad thoughts and quiet sorrows, when their misery and breadth seeps from the pores of my skin and drowns me in their power.  I choke on them, gasping for fresh air - for thoughts untainted by a darkness too dense to call black, too hollow to call gray.  In time, though, they recede back into my bones, replacing the marrow.  I am composed of melancholy.  My flesh is a kindness too weak to hold it all in, but solid enough to fool you.

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