Broken Hearts, Among Other Household Tradgedies

It is 1:00 am exactly, I’ve resigned to the fact that sleep isn’t an option for tonight.

No amount of socks and blankets are going to stop the chill because that’s coming from inside my chest, and headphones won’t stop the ringing in my ears because the pounding is in my head.

Sitting down at my desk and pushing my glasses up on my nose I’ve stopped fighting the tears but I’ve managed to chase the sobs away.

Rivers flow from underneath my glasses, pouring down the sides of my face and cascading onto the desk. All I can do is watch them fall, and wish that maybe I hadn’t in the first place.

For the first time that I can remember I can’t find beauty in the pain that I’m feeling and the struggle to understand is what is currently holding my heart into my chest.

I’m not angry, even though I should be, and I’m not sad, even though I have reason to be.

I’m afraid of a situation I can’t control.

And yet, I am angry, furious.

No longer a question of why because being denied the only thing I have ever asked, again, and again.

But now I have to wonder who I’m angry with, the one who took it from me, denied me of it, or just the world, for having stripped me of the privilege to desire. To dream. To hope.

No, none of those.

That disdain is entirely for me, and only myself.

For piecing together the parts of myself just so I could give them away to be torn apart once more, forcing me to search for my own identity, integrity, and worth. All over again.

Moronically handing over everything that I have worked so hard to build just so it could be broken down again, perhaps with the hopes that it would never be restored.

And you know what the worst part is?

I’m not even sorry for it.