Even though I keep moving forward, there is still a part of me that lingers in the darkness of my past. No matter how much I succeed or what I accomplish, I’ll never be good enough because, in my head, she lives even though she’s been gone.
It’s still there, the words she harmed me with like bloodied rocks and stones bruising and piercing my soul.
Even in death, she manages to slam my head against the wall of my chest and press until the tears have nowhere else to go but out.
And I float in that feeling, this curse, this darkness I find comfort in because it has been with me the longest.
We both know it isn’t healthy, yet we sit, two halves of the same whole who battle back and forth between happy and sad.
Such simple emotions, you’d think, how easy it would be, but it’s not. Even in happiness, I hone in on the sad, and in the sad, in my self-run tragedy, I find its sister's anxiety and depression with worry, fear, and doubt not far on their heels. If I'm anything or nothing at all, I'm never lonely because in them, in the welcoming arms of gloom, I seek shelter in the known.
Where darkness is, is a home I never want to visit, but it stands with open arms if I should stumble if my footing shall give way and lead me home.
It’s there.
I’m there.
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