Distorted Fairytale

You talked about suicide; about jumping, falling,  and bashing your head in on the pavement. You tell it as if it’s a page from a fairytale— bright, happy, and with birds circling over your corpse.

You talked about walking into the ocean; pockets full of rocks, and lungs full of saltwater. You told me about it, in a tone that makes it like you’re visiting mermaids at the bottom of the ocean, indefinitely.

When I found you on your bed, still as Aurora, cold as the Ice Queen, with poisoned apples on your bedside table, I thought about kissing you. That is how things are supposed to work right? True love solving everything, bringing light into the darkness, and making birds sing with abandon.

Apparently not. 

So I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I was so blinded by our fairytale that I failed to see your darkness. 

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Dark Clouds

It never really goes away, you know, that heavy weight on your shoulder, that dark cloud that hangs over your head that seems to follow you everywhere. You can feel their presence, only you can feel their presence, actually.

You want to scream at people to look at the cloud, to cut the phantom rope around your neck, but you can’t. So you give them your megawatt smile instead, throw witty assurances their way so they won’t suspect that anything is wrong with you. God forbid if they find out that you’re not right in the head. You are, after all, a calm, collected, reliable adult.

So you try to silence the nagging thoughts in your head that tells you that you are nothing but an insignificant speck on this universe. You try to quell the repeating visions of your death —it varies, sometimes a horrid car crash, sometimes a quiet peaceful death. You also tell yourself that the caresses of blade you feel on your wrist where your old scars are is just a  phantom thing from your past, like a pain from a missing limb.

So you just scream internally. Keep it all bubbling inside, waiting for the cathartic moment where you will (hopefully) be free from the dark clouds and phantom ropes. But you doubt if it will come, of if catharsis would equal to eternal rest.

There are good days though, it is not as sunny as other people’s good days, but it is warm enough. Probably more tepid than warm, but it is a vast improvement from the constant chill in your bones, the nagging weight on your shoulder, and the dark ominous cloud overhead.

Those days you cherish. There is only so much sunshine that your dark cloud can allow you. It’s not that you refuse to fight it and actively seek sunshine from somewhere else, it just hangs there, out from your reach yet near enough to block the sun.

Those good days are the only thing that keeps you afloat during the worst. A silver lining, if you may. So while waiting for it, you just keep on swimming.

Drowning

And you sink deeper and deeper until it is impossible to sink any further,  yet it is still not the bottom.

Your lungs burn. Your vision blurs and darken at the edges.  You wish for a blank slate,  a second chance to do everything differently. But as you feel fire burn in your lungs as you push your last breaths out,  and see darkness encroach your vision,  you know. You know that second chances are myths told by people in denial. 

You feel heaviness in your limbs. You feel the cold water prickle your skin. And as you feel like you’re burning and freezing at the same time, you succumb to the darkness.