You can hold it in, let it eat you up from the inside out, change you, make you into something that you no longer recognise when you pass a reflection. A thought, a feeling, it festers, spreads black across everything pretty. You can't see another's pain, you can't feel it, can't taste it, you never learn any lessons.
My pain sits with me in the dark. Screams my name from the top of it's lungs, waters down my happy. I can fantasise about a life with you, but it isn't in reach, it doesn't feel possible. Much like anything else in my life, it just kind of is, and I just kind of exist, in a limbo of what could be and what is.
That's the thing about suffering it never needs a reason, just an opportunity. The less hope in a person, the easier it is to break them, to mold them into something better designed for you.
I bleed from every fucking crack in my skin, it seaps out of me and onto those that I love, red, dark red, and it stains, the blood always fucking stains. And then love just stands there, looking at you with such dismay in their eyes. And they ask why? Why would you do that? And heartlessly you exhale all the air that you've been holding in your lungs, and you quietly reply,
Because I could.
-SF
