There is nothing poetic about sadness.
There is no beauty in tears. They do naught but blur.
Blur your vision, your mind, your life. You can’t see.
You can’t feel, numbness crawls under your skin.
Emotions swing back and forth, back and forth,
fill you up and burst out again and again from within.
Sensations become further from reality, a distant memory.
Every day a mirror of the next. Life becomes death on repeat.
Against your desire you curl up in a ball of vulnerability.
Hands reach out, a reply to your shouts, but they are just out of reach.
The hurt gets too much to bear, you’re tired, you are scared.
And every moment leads you to a worse shade of better,
each page in your diary looks like your last letter.
The flood of emotions from your eyes is weakness,
So hide, never be found. Hide the urge to let it rain down your face.
Hide all other ways to hide your pain, hide it under your sleeves
hide it under a watch, a wristband. Bear the sting.
Your slashes, your drug, your addiction.
relapse again and again and again.
There is no beauty in hidden scars.