At the expense of a small wrist dance, I forgot what there was. I forgot the posture, the safety as words hug me, the comfort, the stream falling down my eyes as I hold a pen to write, how it takes the venom out of me, how it kills the illness, suffocates the worries and ease the pain. I forgot the healing at the end, how I read the self-made prescription, wipe up the tears and meet a sense of closure, moving on.
I look at myself in the mirror and weary is the only word I can utter.
My eyes sunk into the kind of despair that is far too obvious.
My smile seems fake no matter how much sincerity I put into it.
Ps: admitting is the first step towards healing.
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