Loss borne upon stranded shores.

Today I cried; he is gone. Not just the puppy that stood watch over my suffering soul for so many years, not just the dog that I held as some supposed witness put there to validate the holiness of my guilt, but my own self has seemed to slip away. The wounds of my youth burn brightly, scars reinvigorated; they are no longer healed. Old tissue breaking apart just to reveal bloodless cuts no deeper than I recalled. 

What was the point of this torture? 

Did you want to remind yourself of the pain you endured?

You thought you could forget the thing that always made you smile?

I did think that! I believed that deep within that buried desire would starve, wither, and be smited. I top the mound, throw away the shovel, and shed tears to bare earth each time I believe the battle is over. The stitches are red, bloody and marred just as the day they were not cast.

Whose certainty provided such shelter to that bitter positivity you hold so unsparingly tight to your chest?

Could it truly be you?

I cried not just for his loss, I cried for the loss of so many others, the loss of my certainty, and I cried knowing all those I hold close will fade away soon enough. I know that when they do, their ghosts will circle within my head, casting shadows while they twist riddles and tell me lies.

Can an innocent’s untainted mind harbour such persistent violence?

I think not. The things I have done called this hand down to earth to grip me. My sins cast red hot in the memories burning brightly. Your loss is not just your own, it is mine. Please know I will not forget you, and every time I remember I will be seized with an urge to self violate. I will curdle, seize up, and beg to rip open again, but as a final act of devotion to you, I will abstain. My sacrifice is my love, and your memory.

I am sorry I can not be better, but I will do my best.

A letter to begin again.

Hello again; I seem to have found myself in another bind. I am caught between sorrow-filled expression, and a clawing repressive state that I so fear. Why must this trap be of such a great weight, whose gravity seems so inescapable. 

If I might stop to appreciate the stillness, a storm erupts.

If I do feel peace, around the corner is death.

If I could imagine a misery, it would be born.

How low must I be trapped if all there is to be done is to leave. The door never fully closes, even if open just a sliver, it will make itself known. This sliver will then rot, becoming infected and pink it will claw its way from the corner of my vision until I can not see another thing. My vision encroached upon, my thoughts no longer avoidant; I believe. What I tried to silence is no longer meek, it is a beast! Teeth gnashing, maw agape so wide that I can see acid bubbling. Take me in, widdle me away until nothing but bones are left. Soft tissue erodes; calcified remains.

I prayed for relief to a god of my own creation, one I made to save me from this terror; a god who battles against the rippling fear. They are of my own, bred to purify. So perfect a creation it was, and yet, once again, it fell upon the sword I seemed to be born impaled upon. The point birthed in splatter, the edge made melded onto flesh. I gazed down on something so much greater than myself, and still it crumbled to acrid dust.

Can you imagine the malaise I felt at that moment? So tall I had thought; so low I was brought. Cheek to curb, gravel rubbed deeply into every unstitched wound. A pathetic creature was born again at that moment, some sort of undying beast who seems to be cursed to endure an eternal cycle of bloody birthing.

Welcome to whatever misery I have found.

Hallow be thy name of whoever might succeed this.

Roughened hues do entertain the crowds though, do they not?