Tears run down my face. The chaos of anger, despair and frustration mix together in a colourful tornado, tearing me apart – leaving me breathless. It is the unfairness of it all, that they’ve left me alone. It could have been different if anyone had cared. Yet they choose to do it this way, and in turn, breaking my heart in the process.

In the moment of solitude, when the quiet pierces my skin, I can feel the tendrils of sorrow slowly wrapping around my heart. Sorrow deftly makes its way around, slowly but surely destroying me. Every so often, it squeezes my heart, reminding me that sorrow remains. It leaves whispers of despair imprinted in my mind, assuring me that there’s nothing for me, that there will never be. Nothing.

Describing the hurt always makes me cry. As if acknowledging it merely opens up a dam within me that has slowly been filling up with pain.

There is a small part of me that speaks up, shouting – there are those that care. Yet it is often drowned out by the persistence of sorrow. Sadness does not care. There is only me, myself and I. Everything else is blurred out into the distance.

I used to carve lines into my skin, the pain pleasing to sorrow. I used to wish I was brave enough to pierce through completely, letting the blood run free, just to see it end. I don’t do it anymore, but when my control slips, in times like these… I just wish, and wish and wish, and I take the blade, the cold against the warmth of my skin–

I can’t even tell anyone, because I do not think they will understand. Even if I did, what can they do?


And that leaves me….




In the silence, I cry.



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