TW: This story uses a lot of metaphors and references to mental illness. It also uses references to sharp objects, slight gore, and strong emotions
Please read with caution and only while in the right mental state.
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I know I have to get up but I can't. I hear my loved ones shouting my name, saying prayers, and expressing their worries, but I cannot listen. Their questions are drowned out by the whispers, the expectations, and the standard. I try to leave my bed, struggling to my door, just to silence all the emotionless concerns; but I can't get up. There isn't a physical boundary, nor a weight, just-- just a void. A void between me and my door that I cannot cross without falling in. I've tried people, I've tried money, I've tried distractions-- but nothing. There is nothing that will ever fill that void. This struggle seems everlasting as I'm bound to my bed by a wrecking ball; it's chain composed of the worst components of my past. Hope is lost. I feel everything at once. A rush of anger, a strike of fatigue, a wave of sadness-- then it all goes numb. My heart is pierced with an anesthetic blade. It seems so painful to everyone watching as I bleed out of the cavity of my chest, my flesh begging to be shut, but god does it feel so good to finally feel nothing at all. I force myself to pull the dagger out of my chest, masking my pain to make others around me feel more comfortable. And when the pain wears off, I grab my trusted scissors in hopes to relive the relief of feeling nothing at all as I stab at my restricting chains. It works, but only for a few moments. The numbing never lasts. in my last hopes of freedom. I bandage the void with gaws and stickers and other things to make it less hideous, even if I know I'm only covering the surface of my problems and avoiding the root. I carefully cross over the temporary fix like a tight rope, knowing one wrong move and everything I have worked for could collapse under my feet, and reach shakily for my door. Once I have reached my door, I stand up, piece myself back together, and act like nothing happened as I exit my room, dreading the morning the cycle begins again.
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When a Shattered Heart Speaks
PoetryA broken heart is mendable with the correct care. But a shattered heart? Oh a shattered heart will never be truly fixed no matter what you do for it. A shattered heart cannot reflect anything, but the sound of it breaking tells you everything.
