I hate this. This track-stopping, hard-to-describe feeling. I hate feeling happy only to be slapped in the face by the reality that I’ve been trying so hard to run away from. It’s as if whenever I’m walking, it shows: like a mark, a stain. People look at me and they see that. Why does pain always have to be so apparent? Maybe it’s not, but it feels like it is. At this moment, it is. All the hurt, the disappointments, the imperfections in my life – all screaming and struggling to go out. I am exploding in on myself again, and there’s no one but me who can hear the pieces falling to the floor, no one but me to pick the splinters as it curse through my veins and pierce through flesh and bones. There’s this hollow thud to where my heart used to be. I used to be too eager to feel, too eager to experience things. I should’ve known that when I asked for everything, it comes with EVERY THING.
The silent screams are deafening. Does it always have to be this way?