Pain is seductive, it gnaws on your brokenness. Pain knows how to slither into your subconscious and be company in your lonely. In your lonely, depression is present and thoughts, well, thoughts are well represented should minutes be taken. Pain is selectively seductive and it has found a way.
What do we call this disease of not having the eye for genuine things? For those that give life and love and everything nice? Seeking the pain in pleasures, the tears in pleasers, the anger in gratitude? What do we call the desire to break things before you can love them?
Everything you touch, tumbles down. Whatever ground you step on, results into sinking sand.
It's midnight, there's cold coffee in my mug. The coffee maker machine had been cold but my whiskey bottle is half empty and my bedside cold. The ring of my phone, what the hell. I'm at this familiar spot again, drifting towards the broken. My head is clouded and foggy, there's mist in my eyes. There's a lump in my throat and weights upon my shoulders.
You could be somewhere else now, next to a warmer body but you choose the cold distance between our souls. You reach out your hand, I recoil back and further away in my corner like a tortoise. You are familiar with the face. I hear your deep breaths. You are calm.
How the hell can you afford to be so calm? What are you? Doesn't it bother you? Don't I bother you? I remember all these like one of those written episodes. But this was once real. I want to reach out and strangle the calm in you. How do you do it? How do you cope with me, I can't cope with myself? I feel the arousal of the knives in my stomach.
I hate this part. It is at this point when the little demons start to walk. I prepare my ears for the screams to follow. The hollow in my heart, the fading of the glow.
You are awake. You are staring at the wall, listening to my heaving. From a distance you are watching me break down in tiny pieces. It breaks your heart. But what can you do? You can walk away. You can run from so this madness and never look back. You can walk away from this darkness that you never have a chance of understanding.
You can forget of your presence in this place. But you don't.The whiskey bottle is empty. It rolls from my hand, slides down the duvet and on the floor. I could use another bottle. Pain knows it's home.
Pain knows how to summon my being. Pain has mastered how to be unpredictable. Pain is my master. And when the master calls…
Feel at home, there's room in my heart.
What can I serve you?