The thing in your chest, it's heavy, it's loud. So loud that only you can hear it.
And you can only hear it
It doesn't speak. It screams.
No words, just the screech
Ask it to explain itself but it was stubborn or maybe it doesn't have ears.
Maybe it doesn't have any senses
Why would I consider it as living, you may ask.
To that, let me just say I might have loved it
I remember telling him when he asked if he ever caused me pain, I replied you can't hurt me because I didn't give you the power.
So this thing in my chest, the reason it hurts is as clear as the holiest water.
And I still surrender myself it, calling for help as loud as the thing calling me.
YOU ARE READING
What do you call it?
RandomThis is a piece I wrote to escape. I was having a week of hardcore depression, so I thought of investing this energy into some shitty works and this is a result. I don't care if anyone hates my writing beyond there wildest dream, I'll be writing and...
