A Soundless Echo

And just like that-

You felt the rush of a thousand heartbreaks.

Like swallowing shards of glass, and grinning as it punctures your lungs.

You didn’t care that it hurt, because at least you could finally feel something.

Do you remember when you were a small child, and you stuck your fingers in hot wax just trying to cover the tired flesh stretched over your shaky hands?

You always told your family you’d leave your handprint on the world but you were constantly covering your tracks.

Remember your first kiss? How everyone told you that you’d feel those butterflies in your stomach, like they’re swarming around in the fresh, crisp spring.

Remember how they told you it would be unforgettable?

But when the time finally came, it felt like black tar settling in the settling in the pit of your stomach.

And you can’t recall who it was or when it happened, all you know is that you’ve kissed a million strangers ever since just chasing that euphoria you read about in story books.

They said your first breakup will teach you a lesson but leave you in shambles.

When you and your first split all it taught you is that love is always conditional and people just fucking suck.

It didn’t leave you in pieces more or less with a blank stare and a soundless echo.

It made you question if you were capable of feeling at all.

You feel more at home at a cemetery than you do in your own house.

Another manic episode comes crashing over and the flickering between your ears gets you buzzing like a bee.

The thing about chasing highs is that once you fall, you hit rock bottom and it’s gonna take more than your impulsive choices to dig you out.

Didn’t they tell you that putting chemicals in your hair won’t make up for the imbalance in your brain?

You beg the psychiatrist to spare some serotonin.

You don’t know how to tell the people closest to you that you’re broken.

So you allow them to admit you into hospital treatment centers.

You sit in group therapy and listen to the boy who nearly died from a heroin overdose.

You listen to him compare the pulsing in his veins to the heartbeat he felt when he’d put his head against her chest.

You promise yourself you’ll never go down that path.

Till one day you’re sitting in a 7/11 bathroom using a dirty needle.

You were never good at keeping promises.

Your wrists serve as enough evidence.

One day you’re coming down from doing enough cocaine to spell out heartbreak and you tell yourself you have to stop living this way.

So here you are again 63 days inpatient.

Swearing up and down you’re gonna get your shit together.

Doing everything you possibly can to try and get better.

Your counselor says you’ve overstayed your welcome so you pack your bags and head back home.

Or not home.

More like the place you just reside.

You always made houses out of flesh and bone instead of brick and board and maybe that’s where it all went wrong.

But today you’ve grown.

You’ve shed the skin of yesterday, and you’ve outgrown old habits you thought you’d never kick.

No more hospital treatment centers, no more padded rooms.

You’ve learned that your pain demands to be felt. So when it comes, invite it in. Let it sit for a moment and allow yourself to feel it. But don’t let it overstay it’s welcome.

Right your wrongs, take inventory of harm you may have caused.

Reconstruct your idea of reality, shift your perspective, change and change again because there’s no limit on who you should be.

Ward off negative energy and surround yourself with those who lift you up rather than remind you of your wrongs.

Of course you’re the villain in someone else’s story, but all that matters is that you’re the hero in yours.

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