There are occasions when you feel, alive.
Moments when the simplest gestures
remind you of hope, when bleeding knees
yield answers, when the inner voices die
down the same way you wish to.
These moments are precious.
Waking up doesn’t feel like a suicide
mission, loving doesn’t feel like a failing
attempt at getting something right.
These moments are rare.
You spend hours dying on the move, you
spend days upside down in the correct way,
you unlearn to live.
There are occasions when you think of
doing something other than being dead.
Moments when He cares for you, when He
wants to shield you from everything
that could harm you, even himself.
These moments are present.
These moments are rare.
But there are occasions when he splits
himself around and He doesn’t care. When
He’s cold and unwavered by what you feel
and how you feel it.
These moments are present.
These moments… these moments aren’t rare…
He gets colder, less attached and he is more
withdrawn. You crumble, He doesn’t flinch.
You cry, He shrugs. You love Him in an
attempt to save him, but you end up hugging
a black hole of nothing that sucks you in
and ruins you beautifully. After all things,
when your being is dust and gold in its purest
form, when grey seems like a bright colour,
He dies inside you.