Your scars are ripped open without a second though. The pain is fresh and clamps down harder than it ever has. You double over, gasping at the raw aching in your chest. You tear wildly at your breast, hoping that if you can rid yourself of the cause of your hurt, all the suffering will stop.
But it won't. It won't stop.
It will always be there, gnawing at your subconsciousness. No matter how much you suppress it, it will never leave you as long as you live. At times, it takes over. You are merely it's tool. It uses you so you fuel it from a withering spark to a roaring fire. Then it burns you from the inside out, and your seared away slowly.
The anguish would only end if you ended yourself.
But you know you would never do that. It's not that people need you and you need them, or there's something you know you have to do. It's fear. What if after you bleed out or suffocate, there is nothing but blackness awaiting you?
What then?
The pain is not physical, it's emotional. Your heart is committing treason to your well being-your soul. Your soul is being held down by cold hands. They carry your horrible experiences like knives and drag them through your very spirit. You can feel your happiness spilling out like blood, onto the cold operating table. The hands withdraw-for now, and shrink away into dark folds. The scars are eternal and you come back into yourself slowly, like awakening from a dream. You see the blood on the table, the damage you've caused and try to suck it up. But like a pond or lake or anything that eventually overflows, your dam bursts and your left with Nothing but cold, rough hands and memories tearing at you. My soul is one large, festering scar that threatens to burst at any contact. It takes a tap, a couple words or a mental picture, and I'm bleeding out onto the floor, not remembering when I grabbed the razor or when I made my way to the bathroom.
We were all made to die, and death is made for us. It's not a opinion, it's a grim truth. Reality is a set series of scenarios that we can try and fail miserably at to change. It's what we have to wake up to. What we have to face. When you hear in the news about someone who couldn't take it anymore, couldn't stand to live anymore, you call them cowardly, pathetic, weak. The truth being taking your life is one of the hardest things you can do.
How about the pain? A dull ache to an agonizing stab. Not many can withstand it without some kind of outlet to let it through.
It will always be there, gnawing at your subconsciousness. No matter how much you suppress it, it will never leave you as long as you live. At times, it takes over. You are merely it's tool. It uses you so you fuel it from a withering spark to a roaring fire. Then it burns you from the inside out, and your seared away slowly. I wait for the day when I strike the right nerve in the maze of scars, and finally end the slow death I've started since birth.
Until then, I am unstable. Unpredictable. Uncontainable. Uncontrollable. Until then,
I am ALIVE.
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Comment on what should change. This was some deep sh*t I wrote when I was trying not to throw my iPad out the window. I know at least three people read this, but it's a small category I'm under. Got a new story coming out in a day about alice in wonderland. Hope you like
