They take a fiendish delight in breaking broken hearts.
I come to write here just so I don’t lose myself, it’s a physically stabilising factor for me.
I like to think I’m an ocean;
Something too deep to know itself fully.
Something full of undiscovered life and deadness.
Something that heals others while being destroyed, yet still lives on gracefully.
Something that maybe no one actually really needs;
who in respectful, lonely silence, observes from afar the glorious moments of others, such as of a human on his knees before the woman who holds his heart, and not only happy moments, but also willingly take in the sight and sounds of a body, broken, full of tears, coming to her bosom to weep;
who is tasked to carry the darkest secrets of others, innumerable, safely buried forever, deep in her black heart;
who is full of roaring energy, alternating her ebbs and flows, between bursting with childish passion, crashing the best of her against lifeless nothings and a gentle demure demeanour, tamed and reflecting nothing of herself, only the majesty of the sun’s rays at daybreak, just because she hopes, she breathes, she lives;
who in fury, is only allowed to tremble beneath the surface, bearing all the emotions that others lacked, not born with it.
and no one ever sees, or think it matters, when her heart splits open in an inability to hold in her agony.
they say, she’ll get over it.
after all, she’s just an ocean.
I’m an ocean, I’m a sea
There’s a world inside of me.