It'll slip through your finger tips, the untouchable wind that you try to hold on to, stop and breathe. The tightrope is below you, you cannot see, if you look down you'll throw up.

Just Breathe.

I'll give you the paper and the pen, why don't you rewrite my life? Of course I'll smile and pack you a bag of supplies but do not be frightened if I sit before you with a broken grin and a frozen stare, take a second and blink a bit, how long have you been writing to finally realize that I've been in the kitchen cooking dinner this whole time, you silly billy!

I really laugh, are you struggling that much? It's really not all that hard, what has you troubled? Is it that every time you set your sight on me I become more and more of a spider who has spun her web around you all too tightly that your eyes start to squeeze from your skull, ticking away from the ones you loved, so little time, listen to the clock, tick, tock. La, la, la,

Breathe.

Almost afraid to touch the paper with your pen, you shudder once you see my shadow against the doorframe, you jump into action as the red eyes of the black entity creep down your spine, you cringe. "Why so frightened?" I question, your head sinks farther into your shoulders as your pen writes and writes across a dusted sheet of paper almost as blood looks against parchment your drying ink smears as the coming of your following words and new paragraphs appear on the page like that of invisible ink you write and you write, finished yet?

Breathe.

Have you looked up yet? Your hand looks sore but your still writing, no longer with your right hand but now your left, farther sloppy writing fills the continuous papers that lie across your desk, how many pages have your written, 5? 10? 20? 50? Its almost becoming a story, are you sick?

You do not look well, are you okay? I poured you a warm cup of tea but you splashed it away to the floor, angered I grabbed your sickened face and made you look at me, I stare at you so fiendishly and I cry out --"Look at me!" you do, and I forcefully kiss you, sucking away your entirety, you breathe and see the papers around you have formed themselves into a pile, stacked neatly upon your desk you look around and slur about, you call for me, wiping the drool from the side of your face you blink and catch the works you had just finished inching its way towards the fireplace, you try to chase after it but you are restrained by your own hands and feet! HURRY!

Breathe.

The papers burn to a crisp.