There are wounds that never show on my body but that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds. And I would have never imagined these invisible scars would become this wandering storm of nightmares in my head. It’s a succulent black hole within ourselves. Just about impossible to escape. The devastation of everyday devouring your conscience. The blankness of your surroundings picking apart at my miserable heart, piece by piece tearing apart my delicate emotions. I am as numb as ever as the pain relapsed, the scarlet red streaking down my ignited fire of confusion. At that point I had realized there was no chance of revival. Because depression is insidious. It’s impossible to see the end of this horrible suffrage. The detriment of this pain, was as antagonizing as a serrated knife, shredding against my tender flesh. At this time, my body feeling as hollow as my internal life that had kept me alive, it dissolving in the darkening sea that had consumed me. This blackness is like being tired, but you suffer insomnia. It’s the repugnance of emotional discomfort, when the sanctuary for physical affliction exists. It’s the ultimate cost of denial when the truth is too much to handle. There’s a monster clinging to my weeping soul, clenching on so tight it hurts to breathe so suddenly you’re stuck waiting… and waiting for something better to come of your life. Because to me? There’s nothing left.