If you romanticise your darkness aren't you to blame for the fall out, the misunderstanding, ignorance and maybe the manipulation? So, you call your scars a mere contour on the map of your body; is your pain reduced to such a conquest? For someone else none the less. Your blood is simply a rose waterfall of release, until there's too much and it's too fast and it's not the poetic beauty that you had in mind. So show me the endless chasm in your mind, the abyss that pulls you down like gravity. I promise to judge you openly and to your face. Take what you what you want from me, I can feel what you need. Your tears streaming down your face hoping someone will reach a sense of comprehension that you were reaching out all along knowing how unlikely anyone's hand would be there to grip your own. So now when you look at the ugly mess you've made of yourself, stop trying to remember any momentary beauty in the moments after the blade touched your vain. It isn't real. Your tears are tears, your blood is blood and the scars left behind are the permanent reminders of that ugly time. The only real beauty is when you stop trying to find a release because you don't need to anymore. If someone could just tell me if it is in fact possible, I might just stop myself.
YOU ARE READING
Lachrymose
PoetryLachrymose /ˈlakrɪməʊs,ˈlakrɪməʊz/ adjective tearful or given to weeping. A collection of amateur prose and poetry illustrating the inner turmoil. Mainly a dumping ground for loose thoughts and ideas to be interpreted in whatever manner.
