After taking what seemed forever to build my guard, to secure my heart and to let the numerous wounds turn to scars, scars which are slowly beginning to fade away; I feel the familiar rush within my chest once again.
Stronger than before, a surge of bliss entangled with a hint of fear courses through my veins everytime we talk.
Swiflty, he penetrated through my frail attempts to put up a wall, and engraved his mark on my heart. I find myself gradually getting addicted to the sound of my heart beating faster everytime we meet.
His gentle words caress my bitter, restless thoughts, consoling my agitated, impatient soul. My fears still remain, a soft reminder that this isn't a fairytale, pain does exist and will continue to haunt us, but with him I fade away into a state of numbness and ecstasy. A comfort only he can give me, a warm embrace fashioned to feel like home. I can pour my heart out to him, give him everything within me, all my dishelved emotions and hasty touches, all because of the shackles of his trust that somewhere along the line, chained me to him.
It's always been easy to write about grief, it's writing about this queer happiness, this sudden fervour of feelings that dig deep into my soul, to actually pen down how readily I am willing to give away my heart is what I find challenging, but I'm willing to take the fall.
YOU ARE READING
Just Another Diary
Non-FictionThis isn't a story. It's a collection of thoughts, thoughts I'm sure all teens go through.
