What It Meant to Live

I needed to know what it meant to live.

I learned from blades what it meant to breathe.

Not in the sense of what it was to feel air,

but what pain burned through my lungs,

what hollowness consumed my being,

and what sorrow twisted my guts,

without it.

I learned I felt to much, luckily the blade corrected that.

It sliced out the pieces that ventured into the severe,

bottoming us out in an unparalleled serenity,

unburdened by the consequences of foolish emotions.

I learned that I could convince myself to live this way,

to feel this torment; this pain that made me more,

made me special in a way nobody could take,

or understand.

Not that blurred face in the reality of a sea of blurred faces.

I learned that secrets cause a sharp weight.

Each smooth slit stood as an addition to my collection,

pressing one more ounce onto the scale,

promising the weight crushing me was crucial to life.

I learned that nobody sees outside their perceptions;

humanity strolls along, unaware.

Each person engaged with their own struggles and triumphs,

simply too busy to look at my silly sad feelings.

I learned I was no different,

I only believed my own trauma,

I only knew I did not matter in the grand scheme,

or any scheme at all.

Until I learned differently;

I knew air would come, only if you let it

it was okay to feel in extreme, to laugh and even to cry

secrets block perceptions, only I can peel back the veil;

and nothing holds without reason, even if it appears inconsequential.

Really I learned it is okay to be.

Thus, if scars hold meaning, mine tell of what I need - life.