”How can I say this without breaking?
How can I say this without taking over?
How can I put it down into words?
When it's almost too much for my soul alone…”
The first taste of copper on my tongue made me think of gunshots. It was only when blood flooded my mouth that I realised I had been biting down on the side of my mouth rather hard, which had been stitched up just recently due to surgery. The taste did nothing to soothe the wound I felt growing on my chest, and the sudden thought of how this might be the type of blood some spit out before falling to their death got a laugh out of me.
Blood and tears, smeared on my lips really left me looking like a vision; a person from horror movies with wild tussled hair with blood running down from their mouth. It all would’ve been fine if not for the vomit that followed, and I found myself emptying my already empty stomach inside my washroom, though shamefully, most of it fell on my clothes instead of the sink.
I don’t think I’ll fit being any haunted characters from movies who have dark pasts and even a darker mindset. My mind isn’t all that complicated, to begin with, and I hurt too easily, for a person who allegedly does not have a clear consciousness or morality. I’ve committed sins which I still have to atone for, and punishment to bear that would not cease any time soon. I know exactly who I am. Broken, unworthy and just not enough. The slashes of knives made out of words reminded me of that enough times to know that is true. So I choke on my words and then puke it all out in my sink when it gets too much, ensuring that nothing comes out. They never do any good, and they are better left unheard, as they too, do not matter in the end.
It’s funny, how good I've become at dealing with knives. I knew from the start that I’d always fall short on everything. From loving to being loved, from giving to getting, I fall, each time, just a tad too short. And it’s hard, at times, dealing with the reality how even bearing my soul and every inch of my being across someone's feet still ends up into nothing, when my existence is not enough, that even all the love I might have, all of it that I can give, falls short. Too short. Always too short. It’s like carving out my soul and handing it over, only to have it returned with corrections made, and improvements required.
Which is why I sit with my vomit and my trembling hands. Old scars replace the news and new blood stains pristine white sinks. It’s a cycle. A goddamn cycle. My knuckles break and bruise with impacts every time I try to break out of it. I think I’m used to my laboured breaths at this point. I hope at one point it breaks my ribs too. It couldn’t hurt any more than what I usually feel. I’d just add to all the scars that line my torso. Burnt marks, cut marks, in the end, are all the same.
But this time, it’s taking me longer to return to myself. The bile has yet to stop choking me, and from time to time blood is still dripping down my lips. But the curtain is down now, so I need not worry about prying eyes. I’ll just wait out the shaking, the breaking and burning.
And if it hurts like hell, then it’s my own hurt to keep, and only my own sorrow to bury.
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