Letters To Peter ♡

Pain

   I found a little bit of comfort in my misery.

   I guess you could say I get attached easily, I guess I cling to the things I'm used to and push away something different. I guess you could say my memories and moments are broken jars and I've kept the shards inside of me. I don't let go, you could say. Everyone says that.

   I never had a positive outlook on life, not really. I tried, serveral times actually. I learned to suppress, I suppose. I learned to tear up the little pieces of hope I've ever had and hide it away, because I hate rising to live only to be thrown back down.

   And, I guess you could say I tend to hate myself. Not others; I try not to deny the privilege of loving another human being. I love too much, I think. And I forgot to love myself in the end.

   It's a cycle, you see. All time high, all time low. I can't seem to decipher thoughts in my head and I can't think enough to keep my emotions under control. I'm impossibly happy one day, and the next, I'm hazing in blood. A cycle of pain, it is. A cycle of rage and high.

   I remember one time I was driving with a friend. The road to Clover Springs was cut up with potholes and little fault lines. An ugly, horrendous, bumpy, flawed road which led to a beautiful town. She whispered under her breath, "this looks a lot like your arm."

   I added more potholes and flaws to my arm that night.

   I'm sad. I'm so, so, terribly sad. I can't even fathom why, or how I still breathe when a simple breath hurts anyway.

   Death is more inviting than life at times, and I've been going through last resorts before I end up... well... worse than I've already become.

   And so, tonight, I decided to try something out on my own. Idiotic; it was tremendously idiotic.  But it was the final barrier between me and the pier's edge.

I opened my window for the soft noise, the one that I was so fond of in the nighttime. I turned on my speakers for the instrumentals to play because I simply adored music, and I washed my sheets just for the hell of it. I had rubbed shea butter on my skin and left my dripping wet coconut scented hair drip onto my pillow. Just a mere minute of my favorite things in the world.

   Only twenty minutes, it took. My eyes were closed but my mind was open as I stood on my windowsill. And in that place between awake and sleep, that tiny place where I can remember dreaming, I whispered confidently,

   "I believe," and fell forward into the night.