Maybe it’s because I enjoyed the solace of each silver sliver of the salted stream that slid smoothly down my face’s curves.
Maybe it’s because I yearned for the comfort of my heated cheeks, blood rushing and adrenaline coursing.
Maybe it’s because each time I slammed the back of my head against the wall or my hand against the floor I felt alive, like the pain grounded me.
But I think most of all, the silence after the wails are what strike me down from where I stand every single time.
My world, moments ago, was filled with the sound of my own agony, and now all I hear are the remnant wavers in my voice and the cackle of birds that heard my commotion.
I result to writing a poem just to drown out the silence.
Repeating every word back, over and over, not to let the piece sink in or to edit what I’ve written, but to make the pain of realisation stop.
The realisation of being truly alone.
The realisation that only comes after you’ve been crying and there’s no one to reassure you.
The realisation that screams louder on the bathroom floor.
“You’re never truly alone, I’m always here to help”, but what if I don’t want to ask?
What if I’m afraid that these words you say are just words.
That you’ll only comfort me while I cry
and once I stop
you’re silent.
My least favourite part about crying is when it stops.