2nd March 2017.

I never knew how much I put up with in my life, until I started breaking down and I see all the colours under my skin. Bleeding out of me in the form of bruises and tears. 

Usually I appreciate my personal ability to detach and remain stoic, almost, in situations deemed uncomfortable. I just don’t let them hit me as hard and as fast. 

Walk away. Breathe deep and keep my hands in tight fists. Stand further. Look on and don’t blink. Shrug a shoulder. Give a non-committal answer. Turn the cheek. 

Be alone. Be quiet. Be resolute. 

For how long can I hold on? I have been told that dying is selfish. You have no idea how bad I want it on some days. But okay, I give in. I keep breathing and find myself in darkness day after day. 

Even my name sheds no light. 

So I cry. Constantly guilty of shedding tears on public transport and making strangers uncomfortable. Now I even cry while walking. I cry after hearing his voice. I cry after watching the trees. I cry after listening to a song. My body cries after a long day. I cry for no reason at all, and everything at once. 

I just cry. 

Then I get told off for crying. Childish and filled with shame. 

But just leave me. Let me grief for this unknown my body keeps reminding me that I know nothing of. Let me grief for things I still can’t speak about. 

Leave me be.

It is the only release I have, besides thinking of premature death. 


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