Broken bones are often shattered on pavements. Broken hearts are ripped apart on top of souls of men and women that are accustomed to indifference.

We spend our days trying to fix shards of emptiness created by words that humans have woven to create harm, to subtly destroy and to malign every positive opportunity that one can obtain. We live our lives based off of opinionated stares, so much so that we forget that the only way to the zenith is if you never look at the ones that are dragging you to the nadir.

We pick ourselves up only to break ourselves down again. Our ribcages are suddenly walls that we put up, our dreams are trapped inside of our guards and we’ll never be willing to open the doors. It’s as though pain has become habitual, and suddenly sadness is the only thing we aren’t blocking out. It’s easy to allow ourselves to get used to the searing damage that words cause us. It is easy to allow ourselves to accept opinions as facts, like what others say is suddenly a defining factor in our ever-changing lives. It’s easy for us to layer bricks of happiness in order to squash our melancholy.

We’re hell bent on telling the world that we’re sad. We’re hell bent on showing them that weren’t not. A cry for help is no longer a cry, but a joke, and they all stare at your scars like you needed pity but all you wanted was to feel alive. To feel like you were at the top of the mountain, screaming till you could feel your lungs giving up, screaming till you felt like yourself again.

They ask you why you did it. You look at them. You say it’s simple.

“I didn’t want to be me anymore. I didn’t want to live while I was trapped inside the darkness of my being. I didn’t want to conform to what you wanted me to be.”

They don’t understand.

What’s love when the world is spinning and they shut you out. What’s love when you’re crying, and they think you’ve lost your mind. What’s love when instead of comforting you, they’re your worst nightmare.

The night is your escape. It drags you into a solace you could never feel around those who you feel safest with. They always leave.

It’s easier to accept that it’s your fault. To feel lesser and lesser with each one that bids you adieu, to feel emptier each time they say it’s them, not you. They want to build you up, only to pick you apart.

Chaos isn’t beautiful, they say. But I am.



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