Why?
I don't believe in god, but if I did, I'd scream and shout and cry my eyes out in hope that they would listen. Instead I just sit in my room. Silent. Silenced. Silenced by myself, by the world, by my pain. There is nothing left to gain. I feel like I am suffocating in my own skin. All I want to do is get rid of this flesh suit that breaks me. I am my own worst critic, my own worst enemy, my own worst ending. I am the main character of a book that no one wants to read. Because, in the end, you always judge a book by it's cover. I don't want my story to end, not now. Not ever.
There is a strange beauty in failing. It's the most human of experiences. Yet, every time I fail, every time I disappoint every time I am not enough. Not strong enough, not pretty enough, not giving enough until in the end I am not.
This wretched face can't save you now. There is no end to this, only breathtaking emptiness that consumes everything and everyone until they are not.
Why, you wonder?
Why.
YOU ARE READING
Short Essays
PoetryThe one about my general dislike of our „social" society, heartache and everything else. Ok, mostly heartache but I really don't know what I'm supposed to do with these feelings.
