Thoughts for the Eye

Wounds That Forever Bleed.

I exist in an endless void, it surrounds me, engulfs me, it is me.

The murmurs and chatter around me make me feel even more alone, each sound carving the silence sharper. Their null conversations, their hushed words, sear through me.

Am I truly alone?

My mother's gaze lingers on me, dissecting the shadows in my demeanor, saying something is different.

I watch her look at me, her disappointment gnawing through me, a fresh wound cutting through me.

She tells me I spend too much time on my phone. 

She never asks why.

I do not tell her why.

She shouts at me for not paying attention to her, telling me that she misses me.

I do not argue, a chain of tears holding my throat shut, I fear that if I speak, I will not be able to shut the chain again.

 I watch her relentlessly tell me how I affect her;

She never asks how I affect me.

I listen to my brother asking to play with him, I cannot, I want to rise, to chase his laughter and cradle his childhood. Yet, I remain still, anchored by invisible chains.

Am I blowing out his flaming childhood?

The void pulls me, deeper, and deeper, I drown in its hash and relentless waves.

I don't retaliate.

Why don't I retaliate?

I fear the same feelings that watch me, waiting to strike, their shadows loom over me as my past calls to me, their fingers brushing against my skin, cold and unyielding, like ghosts in the corner of my eye, waiting for me to falter.

I watch myself go to it, every step is reluctant, and every tap of my feet brings back memories, old wounds rupture again, pain gnaws through the  open wounds,

Why can't I let go?

I watch myself diminish; a specter fading into its own oblivion. Each step forward is a resignation, yet every fiber of me wails for mercy, yet I do not scream for help.

Why don't I scream for help?

I see the child flaring inside me, begging me to scream, begging me to escape, begging me not to get lost inside our past, and to turn away from the abyss. She flares with defiance, her voice trembling against the weight of our shared history.

I do not listen, I burn down her light that desperately fights against the clawing darkness I have created.

I walk into the void, and old feelings, old memories, old longings whirl inside of me,  their jagged edges tearing through me.

The shadows of my buried feelings rip through their coffins, searing through me.

Why do I find comfort in my pain?

I feel a part of me fight, fight against the ignited storms of my own, she tries to stop the storm, to shut the iron door, try not to give up, try not to fall apart.

I crumble under the pitter-patter of the rain, ignoring the girl who fights against the howling of the unwavering storm I had built.

The void embraces me, hurting me with eerie movements, its touch a cruel mockery of comfort that strikes invisible daggers through me, it revels in my torment.

Is it too late to turn back?

The other part of me, fragile and fading, clings to reality, dragging me forward even as she feels herself withering inside.

She touches the flowers that surround her, with every touch their hues fade, their colors seeping away, she chases after them, every step she takes shatters the palette of the world.

She cries against the thorns that now pierce her, the flowers' transformation echoing her tormented spirit.

 Her voice cracks through the darkness with emotion and pain.

Her screams pierce like glass, burrowing into my heart as regret grips me, relentless and suffocating. 

I turn to the void, its eyes staring at me—empty, knowing, tormenting.

It speaks without words:

It's too late to turn back now.