Sometimes I sit in my room and try to cry quietly.
Because that way no one will hear me.
I try to be silent with my tears,
because someone knowing how weak I am seems to be my biggest fear.
But there's also a part of me that wishes they would.
Then maybe someone would care, and help, and make me feel understood.
But since that's so unlikely,
I'll keeping crying quietly,
Hoping no one will notice me.

They say that over time, it dissipates -
it will drain from you, evaporate like smoke.
It will descend upon you, destroy you;
but will soon release you, and fade.

But with time it instead grows stronger,
demanding to be felt.
It knocks on the doors of my soul,
its urgency to be let inside unrelenting and ruthless.

Like an unpredictable storm, it lands and ravages,
leaving just fragments of a heart already rebuilt.
What is gone is the will;
the resiliency dulled, the courage spent.

It's a deep-rooted ****, an unrivaled opponent;
It's a malevolent fire that refuses to be smothered.
The Hurt:
a wound that permeates, and remains.