Where to begin?

Nobody can even start to imagine how kept in the dark I feel.

My heart feels heavy

An oversized blade attached to a sting merely pulling at my innermost core.

It mocks me.

It does not rip me into two; it slowly cuts away from the inside allowing me to only take sips of the bittersweet flavor of pain.

Yet my flesh remains unscathed.

Why does it not tear me apart already?

 

A piece of me so small that it is immeasurable on the infamous judgement scale is relieved that I am alive enough to feel anything and harvests a longing to feel almost human.

But I have not the strength to carry that cross. I tremble in weakness

And cower with fear.

 

So instead I crave for emptiness.

What better feeling than to feel

nothing at all?

Still, it pains me.

 

My pillow reeks of fallen tears

Which barely scratch the surface of the remnants of the cries of a lost age.

Not lost in a sea of white but blatantly sticking out in the open for no one to feast their eyes upon me.

I have no need for their empathy.

 

During the hour of truth when I finally allow myself to unravel out of my own skin

And allow these obsidian shards I can my soul I've been waiting to spill out into occupied atmosphere and travel to that spectrum of what-could-have-been.

This is the only resolution for my hopes to run free in la vie boheme.

Such a beautiful Dispersia of the mass.

But where does it begin?