Heart is pumping, tears are welling up, breaths are forced not to be hitched, hands are forced not to shake. Yet I act normal. I sit there, seemingly unfazed, seemingly fine, while inside I'm imploding.
It's just the umpteenth fight, it's just one more night of yelling, it passes. Everything passes. But everything also trails scum. Every fight, every yelling, every hastened heartbeat is one more piece of me that goes, one more piece of my peace that abandons me, and the truth is, I fear not many pieces are left now.
They sit there, silent, trying not to think, trying to distract themselves from the bomb you just blew up in their hands, while you're there, wondering, what did I do? Did I really have to? Why didn't I just swallow it all, like always? Why didn't I just yell louder and told them to stop, like always? Why did I blow up like that? But more importantly...what happens now?
Nothing.
Nothing happens now, because the truth is, the only way to keep going like this, it's to sweep the dirty underneath the rug, and keep going. Like nothing happened. Tomorrow is another day, Scarlett O'Hara said. It's another day, another fight, another conflict, until you just become numb and numb again.
Until you feel nothing, hear nothing, say nothing. And what a bliss that'll be.
YOU ARE READING
Waiting For The End
PoetryI know what it takes to move on I know what it feels to lie All I wanna do is trade this life for something new Holding on to what I haven't got (Linkin Park, Waiting for the end) NOTE: I put this into Poetry because no other genre felt right, but t...
