The Damage
It comes at night, in the evening, at two in the morning. Randomly, I mean. It comes randomly. The idea comes as poignant as a newly sharpened knife. I don't know what triggers it. I only feel the warm teardrops fall down my cheeks. My lungs lose the rhythm of breathing, and something inside of me tightens itself. So randomly! I contemplate it sometimes myself with all willingness I confess, and nothing happens. None of this happens! I could suspect it to suffocate me at certain instances, ones that somehow link it to my wound, but it does not always do that. It is so random. I only cry little portions of this pain when this occurs, never all of it, never all at once. It hurts to remember how powerless I was. I never considered it worthwhile. I never allowed it to heal; it seems. In fact, most of the time, I never acknowledged that it existed. Why does it hurt sometimes only, if it is real then? What do I do with it all? I don't want a feeling of uselessness to cradle me to sleep. I don't want to wake up telling myself how worn out I am in an irredeemable way. I don't trust myself thinking about it. I might be using it as an excuse, a runaway, a shield, something it should not be, not now, not anymore. It mocks my loneliness then leaves me lonelier than ever.
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