Sitting lonely in the House of Secrets, sipping amber until the world looks less alive. Reality is too bright, and the light burns scars into the heart. Artificial shadows in which to hide, I crave them and their sweet, sweet lies of better times.
The tears drip steadily, sands of an hourglass that measure pain instead of time. So slow, so very slow. And all the while, Death smiles from its perch, amidst branches of confusion and heartbreak.
The fall isn't what kills you, it's the things you see while you tumble that do it.
We die slow, through confessed feelings and retracted infractions and a lifetime of promises that couldn't be fulfilled.
Scrape me slow against your soul, fill yourself with the pain of my being, and dry your eyes as I cry out.
Confusion closes in, welcome in its continuity, in its relentlessness. When you're completely lost, when there is no hope, there's nothing left that will let you down, there is no more disappointment. There is only your survival, raw and brutal and real.
There is only life, and it is painful, but it is still a gift, and there are no preconceptions, no misconceptions, no shady guarantees. There is only what you want to do with it.
Sometimes, that freedom is terrifying.