I hurt. A pain I can't wish away. It's spilling out my ears. Out my mouth. I feel it catch in my throat, and I choke. It breaks open my brain and burns my tender nerves. My thoughts no longer logical. No longer make sense. No longer calm me.
My mind becomes a burning, seething mess of my own pain. It leaks. It leaks down my chest and infuses itself inside my lungs. It's toxic. So toxic it burns my stomach acid and boils. Boils so hot I scream. But never out loud.
This pain. A silent burning pain. So painful, so loud, so foul, yet silent. A type of silent that gets heard. Heard by only me. Yes, I cry. People see my tears. Hear my sobs. But the pain. The pain stays silent. How can I explain a pain so quiet? I don't even bother.
I am my pain. My pain is me. I destroy myself. I kill myself slowly, from the inside out. A skill I manage to posses with ease. An ease I wish I couldn't bear. I wish I didn't bear. Yet I do. Killing oneself is not always a show. Not always so obvious. Sometimes it's slow. Silent, slow, inside, then out.
After my stomach, it reaches my hips. Disintegrating my body at it's core. I crumble in the depths of my pain. My legs snap at the very weight my pain contains. Limbs that used to hold me steady, quake and collapse.
My pain. My pain devours me. Leaves me breathless. Bleeding. Dying. Why? Why does no one notice my pain? This silent burning pain.
YOU ARE READING
My Tragedies
PoetryThis is a collection of poems when I've been my most depressed and low. Trigger warning. If you relate to any of these, please reach out. It's never too late.
