Symbolic Suffering

017

A year the world was on fire. An inferno burning me alive. Sizzling my skin and burning my mind from inside to the core of my heart.

I haunted myself as I wandered around like a ghost without a soul wearing skin as a cloak.

I felt nothing. Only the knives dig deeper into my charred burnt back.

It was the only thing that awaited me at home. When I escaped the house and found myself sitting in a classroom by myself, I felt I could scream or shout. In reality, I only sunk further down into the ground I stood on in a room full of strangers.

I thought I could make it out if only I would depart. I knew there was nothing more to hurt. I was alone, or so I thought.

I was hovering over the pain I layed in when I looked down at myself, lying on the mattress layed out on the floor.

I made the best of what I had even if I didn't feel right.

That was not the worst year of my life.

Sure. I screamed and cried. Yelled in fright. I could never catch a break from the tears flowing down my face, so I became numb. It felt easier if I shut it all out.

So I shut them out. I locked the door and fought to keep it closed. Literally.

I had to fight to get away. I had to yell through the tears for them to let me go. Did they? No.

But that doesn't mean I didn't throw them out. They're gone now. Deader than I ever will be. They died twice while I'll only have to do it one time.

It all happened the worst year I remember of my life. The year of 2017. The year I realized roses had thorns, and they cut you deep if you don't watch out for the knives sticking out from them.

Roses might be white, or they might look more red to you, no matter what they look like they still all have knives that will stick into you if you get to lost in the bloom and forget to look at them stem too.

That's the lesson I learned the year I grew strong. The year 17.