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Charming,

It’s getting harder these days—with nothing to occupy my mind constantly. I have to wait for it to break through tired walls and only then do I succumb—only then can I succumb to it. There is no forcing it. Waiting for it leaves a vacuum begging to be filled—sucking the air out of my lungs and filling it with a sick, toxic fluid. I feel like I’m choking on…nothing. Drowning in empty air. Like I’m containing a silent explosion within me.

A thin membrane separates this active quietness and all the darkness surrounding it. The second I stop still, I have to put all my effort into opposing this incredible pressure. One tiny hole, one careless moment is all it takes. A mire of sickly depression will follow tiny trickles of nostalgia. Don’t be fooled by the wide eyed innocence of memories, you know the journey will lead to no good. All thoughts down memory lane will lead to the valley of that which must be forgotten. Silver lines these thick smoggy clouds and there is no good in being tempted by all that glitters. I hate your labels and your constant need to fix things. Sometimes, listening is enough. We all know the answer for only we have lived our past. You try helping for whatever reason, but I don’t want you to. I just want you to listen. Cos I try screaming it, but I am too corseted by this membrane. And you are too blinded by your need to fix everything.

If I rip a hole and scream through it, if I shed it and let you touch me—the darkness, it might just consume me. I don’t want to think of it. I’m fine with breaking it down into chewable bits of logic—don’t make me choke on the emotions they’re saturated with. I don’t know if I’ll be able to cross that threshold.

I’m tired of trying to please you when you only shut your eyes and ears close to all I say, to all I am. It must make you feel so goddamn superior—tossing me into that box labelled Emo. Disregarding any of who I am and what my story is. Your confounded rows of tidy little boxes—neatly stacked and labelled products of your ignorant judgment. I don’t know why I’m getting mad at you. I’m mad at myself. Just…hold me. I need you. And I might hate myself for it, but it is what it is. And until I drive this need away and fill it with your pretty words and pointless wisdom, hold me. I need arms to contain me, I need your rhythm to sustain mine. Envelop me so we can be blind together.

Distress.



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