I wrote this at like, 2am randomly, thought I lost the save file but then it came back so I am posting it here because why not.
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You look into the abyss of your mind and find solace and pain, beauty and filth, reasons to exists, and not to.
You, with flesh and blood and bone, walking around within a mind of madness and mortality, trying to comprehend what it means…
To be human, to be alive, to live and survive. You think, you wonder dream and break apart under the pressure of breathing.
And yet, you’re still here. Every night, every damn morning wondering why
But no one ever answers. How can they? When your screams are even more silent than death itself promises to be.
To love and to be loved, to see and be seen, to hear and be heard
So you keep on screaming at the shadows beside your bed and wonder…
Is it worth it to keep breathing when it’s so hard to cry
It hurts so much to cry, not during, but after, when the need is gone but the ache burns and swells and shoves its way into your flesh
It won’t let you forget it
You cannot forget it
Pain that worms its way into living
How curious a mind, and how awful a thought, that pain is just pain without glory or honor or dreams of something more.
It just is, and you just are.
Nothing more, and something less
Less than human, less then loved, less than alive.
How do you do it? You’re still here, after every little burn and every little cut you still live. You cherish each scar that mars and each burn that bites. You bite back, you pull and twist and shove pain back after it starts to fade, and for what?
Does blood still clog your throat like phlegm? Can you still breath with your nose choking on the scent of it?
How has your mind not ripped into itself to understand even a fraction of its own suffering? You … you you you you….
Cursed, wretched, beautifully wrecked you.
Your pain isn’t sacred, and your tears aren’t holy.
What is left of it all, when you rip off your skin and peel away the rest of your flesh…
What is you?
And what hides underneath?
Has it starved to death under your hypocritical love?
Has it screamed into the deafness of your love dying to be seen?
Do you feel remorseless guilt?
Is shame a comfortable cloak
To hide underneath your rotting blood?
Can blood rot? Or does it fade into dust once you take away what makes it beautiful?
Where is your heart?
Did it ever beat without the pain you’ve numbed yourself to?
Were you an innocent mirror once, before the cracks formed in your flesh?
Who can say, and who could know
Something like us…
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