#2

i think within all of us there sort of is this threshold for pain, an unspoken limit within all of us before it smarts and stings, and suddenly you're at the very cusps of breaking and you can't really hold yourself together anymore...because you've got nothing left to hold yourself together with.
the past few days have been nothing but heart-wrenching, where sadness comes in nothing but waves, and with each undulating wave, it washes cavity upon cavity into the dentures of your chest, stinging of nothing but sea-salt wounds and crescent-moon nails digging skin into skin.  it's the realization that missing isn't the worst feeling in the world, it's having to swallow every single thing you've ever felt because nothing is relevant anymore, nothing holds true anymore...until your heart is buried beneath four thousand layers of sea.  it's the realization that nothing opens your eyes wider than death does, that nothing will hurt you more than pulling out the pieces of someone from the shellscapes of your mind to realize that they once mattered to you, that your lifelines once intertwined, that you never quite understood the opposite of existence.  it's the realization that you're going back to your old ways, despite knowing that the cords circling around your neck will one day kill you, that there's only so long you could bleed for before it all turns to rust; it's the realization that you no longer know where to go from here anymore, that perhaps you've fallen over one time too many that you no longer have it in you to pick yourself up anymore; that the waters return and you let them drown you every single time, that perhaps you no longer have it in you to stay afloat; it's the realization that you never really made peace with your past, that parts of you have never really moved on, that you've left an even larger part of yourself with your past that you don't really know yourself anymore.  it's the frightening realization of how capable you are at destroying things — including the things and people you once loved — even yourself, and only then you sit back and realize how you're so full of nothing but tainted memories — of what was once happy — with burnt lungs and potmarks from where he last touched you, scars near the inches of your thighs, and the tiny remaining bits of yourself