06.06.16
I don’t remember what it’s like to not feel broken. To not feel the shards that are somehow holding me up slowly tearing at the rest of my being with each breath I take. To not have my mind filled with all the horrible thoughts you’ve induced in me about myself so much so that my train of thought has been permanently derailed. To not wish for permanent sleep because sleep seems to be the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

My tongue hurts from biting down all the words I should’ve said to you, all in the name of having a good heart. My palms have nail marks etched into them from balling up my fists so the anger wouldn’t force itself out of my veins and at you. My body hurts from constantly curling into itself to deflect all the insecurities your harsh existence has lashed out on my bare back.

The words I pull from my depths to anchor me echo around the walls of my head so much that they can’t drown anything anymore. I’m convinced my heart only beats from muscle memory, as I can’t remember the last time I willingly inhaled.