Solitude 

by living-glass

I cannot count the number of days I allowed pure ecstacy to claw its way up the ladder of my spine; 

I cannot remember the times I placed the tip of life’s end on the surface of my skin as it trailed along gently, deeper and deeper;

I cannot envision flashing lights and perfect smiles in the road ahead of me because I end up falling back on the painful thought of a downfall of acid rain and standing needles piercing through each vein on my wrist; 

I cannot find back the ability to open my mouth and convey the words I had nailed across my heart a million times only to desperately want to rip it apart bit by bit afterwards;

I cannot convince myself otherwise of the life I deserve and the one that is not deserving of me as I crumble my own core and wrench from within;

I cannot answer the questions that challenge the purpose of my living only to memorise, regurgitate and reproduce a much falsified yet beautiful image on a plain canvas;

I cannot pull myself out of the fire I chose to walk into due to the very fact that I am allowing myself to slowly slip away into solitude —

Because what I can do, is to acknowledge that, maybe, just maybe, happiness has become a sin that does not belong to me. 

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