My soul spoke volumes as it cried through my chest.
Nothing would be so pure,
so painful.
Nothing like hearing
the soul speak
after years of silence.
Hurt.
Screaming it begged,
to be set free,
“please, let me go.”

And to hear you scream
that I’m not the same
to my crumbling
face
Destroys me.

“𝙄 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙄’𝙢 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙖 𝙗𝙪𝙣𝙘𝙝 𝙤𝙛 𝙘𝙤𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙢𝙚𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙨𝙢𝙨 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙜𝙪𝙞𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙨 𝙖 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙤𝙣.”

𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐞,
𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐦𝐲 𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐥𝐞.
𝐋𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐭𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐞,
𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠,
𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.
𝐌𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐝, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐞.
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬,
𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫,
𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫.
𝐌𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥,
𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞,
𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐬,
𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐮𝐫.

“𝑺𝒐 𝒘𝒉𝒚 𝒅𝒐 𝒊𝒕?”
𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘻𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘴,
𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘯
“Can’t you see?
The smoke is intoxicating.”

“𝑰’𝒗𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒕𝒓𝒚, 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍?”
“I used to feel that way.”
“𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒘?”
“Nothing.”