2

Your own bedlam

To cry yourself to sleep. A martyr to it or not, the thought of it makes you cringe. Saddens your heart to no end. But If you think that is the worst a wounded heart could endure, you're mistaken.

It's that formidable dream. That nightmare of love painted across lakes. That horrifying journey when you traversed across a long unending road, with the one you skedaddled from.

It's when you wake up in the morning, with tears in your eyes and love on your lips.

When you realize your own skin is foreign to.

When your heart no longer belongs to you. When it wants to break through the rib cage because the agony is too much to contain.

You shout curses at your heart, you peel at your skin, you carve hurt on your temple. This sorrow creeping all over your body.


Hoping it will end. You beg it to stop.

It's when morning brings no solace. And remorse is your companion.

It's when nothing is good enough and living is yet another burden to the soul.

Morning is nothing but your very own bedlam.

And at night when midnight strikes, you are taken back into the abyss of nostalgia, to mourn, snivel, into the pillow, before you fall into a deep slumber.


Only to be awakened by the nightmare of love.

And the morning... well.
0

Aftermath of love


Do unto other before they do unto you. Slit their throats, watch while they bleed, and laugh while they slowly but surely lose life from their eyes.

Isn't that how the world works? Isn't that how we work? Isn't that how we have been living? It’s difficult to judge people. Especially when all you see in their eyes, is a reflection of what you are.

Cold, stubborn, relentless and unworthy. When you laugh at how ugly their hearts are, you are mocking no one but yourself.

When does it start? This downhill trip… I reckon no one has the answer.
One moment you’re the fifth mountain, the one that has endured the rain, the winter and the storm. Next moment you’re in ruins. Enduring the insufferable aftermath of love.

While you sit in the corner and brood over what has become of you, your eyes well up. Not because you think you deserve better.

You weep because you have to brave this storm. You have to be strong. When all you want is to crumble to pieces. To be torn in shreds. To be eaten by the earth. To be swallowed by the waves.

There’s only so much pain one can endure, after that it’s living a purposeless life. Dependent on friends to help you sail through the ordeal.

And there they are, strong pillars, doing everything in their might to keep you from drowning. And what do you do? You kick and push and shove them away. You beg the water to consume you.

But how much will your friends swim for you.

How much can they breathe for you?

How long can they live for you?

Is it fair to them?

I’ll leave you with these questions.
 
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