Sept 10. 10:06pm.
"Hell is home for people like us." I'd read in a book recently, and I couldn't help but wonder, perhaps, hell, actually, is home for people like me; crazy, unstable people tethering on the edge of a high fucking cliff.
I really don't mind. You see, I've been underwater, just there, not living, just existing, but today, I was drowning, I couldn't breath, I couldn't talk, I really couldn't breath because every breath I tried to take mocked my hollow chest. I was empty, so sad, so broken.
Today, I got the full gist bout the brokenness I actually am. I had the front row seat as my empty ness, brokenness, sadness became my undoing, I watched helplessly as I drowned.
I was drowning, I was breaking, I was hurting, but, I pulled myself together, as always.
Home is subjective, and I'm homeless.
If hell is a place for people like me, people who are sad, broken, drowning, just existing, sad people, mad people. If hell consists of people like me, people too broken and so exhausted to heal. If hell is filled with tired people, crazy people, panic-attack-at-least-thrice-a-month kind of people, people who sleep with the earpiece plug in, and the music on the highest volume, people who listen to NF and Halsey till sunrise.
If Hell is filled with people like me, perhaps, it can be home.
Or, I'm just spiraling, and on the edge of a psychotic break - mental breakdowns - menty b.
YOU ARE READING
Something Mending -- VOL 1
PoetryOf Breaking hearts, young love, betrayal and pain. Of Mending hearts, familiar pain, unexpected hurt and aftermath. Of Healing hearts, underated heartache, pain and acceptance. Of Love, Love that is as deep sea. Pain, that knows no bounds. Strength...
