It's one of those nights. Phantoms scratching at the
window panes begging to be let in, for me to acknowledge
them after being numb for so long.
My lizard brain hisses
objection, it thinks it has been protecting me from the
grief I should be feeling. It is both comforting and
terrifying, knowing the dam is cracking and that soon I'll
be swept away in the current of pain again.
I don't have enough fingers to count my losses anymore, so I cut them
off one by one until I can't hold anything. It all just drops
to the floor, and I shove them under my bed with
everything else I want to keep but don't want to see.
Now the scratching is growing louder, more insistent, the glass
becoming etched with names and faces and I want to look
away but I'm transfixed, an ache building in my chest that
needs to be heard.
It shouts at me to feel feel feel, and a tear
manages to leak from my eye before I shut down again. But
it's coming. I know it and I don't want to stop it. I need to
remember I'm alive, even if I have to hurt for a while.
A long while, probably. I'd rather feel pain than this nothingness.
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