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.