Art featured by Jun Cen

It must’ve been beautiful that night, breezy and pleasant where the world outside existed in harmony.

Or not.

It must’ve been dreadful, difficult, uncomfortable and sad.

Or not.
Who knows what kind of night it must’ve been back then? Back when my younger body laid crouched in the corner of the bathroom floor, begging for something unattainable.
That first night that still burns, devastatingly real and vivid in my memories even after how many years, that night, and that night and all those nights where I’d pick on my skin, right through the cracks growing on my body, dig deeper and deeper and steal a drop of blood, the drop of blood which I dissolved in my tears, if I couldn’t flood it out of my body in one go I’d take it out myself, with my bare hands one by one until there’s none left. When I reach the final drop that fills my body, I know it’ll be a beautiful night, a night where doves fly high and bright against the dark, blue night.

I often find myself staying up all night holding onto my chest tight—afraid of any breath that slips out of me, on edge of every sound that rings in my room, the whirring of the fan, the ticking of the clock, the sound of my lungs—anything that is alive, any sound of life is terrifying, agitating, hurtful. So hurtful on some nights I find my ears bleeding, I have given up on sleeping, so it’s just me waiting,





Longing for the moon only to be left alone too. Did I do something wrong? The moon who took my broken heart from me hasn’t been around either for a while. I keep searching and searching and searching for something, anything at all, anything that would tell me it’s real, anything that would tell me I am real, but there is only silence.

I see the sun rise everyday and I feel dread. I’m scared of having to live again. I don’t see the sunset and I feel empty. I’m scared of having to live again.

I cannot take a step without running into the dead broken parts of me. Parts of all that I once was shattered on the floor underneath my bed, around my desk, next to the window, on my canvas, on my pillow. The shards that moan aloud in agony, their devastated howling that makes my bone shake and rattle and fall apart, I cannot take a step without falling apart, each piece that lies shouting, screaming, hurting, little, little, so small in so much pain, the parts of me that lie scattered around my room, that prick through my skin, that bleed, all at the same time, every day, every hour, every night. Longing to be healed, how lonely it must be?

So much of who I was lies shattered on my floor, broken and even still all alone, how lonely it must be, to be me that is broken, to be me that exists hollowed. But this emptiness is just natural to me. I cannot take a step without running into the the dead broken parts of me, the shards that echo when it rains, the shards that glisten under the sunlight that seeps into my room, like life only comes to me when I’m broken, unable to grasp, unable to hold on, nothing to do but have it shine on me that is fallen. Life in this broken mess is as wasteful as the sunlight that falls on withered leaves. How cruel? To be alive right now, wasted shining in an ironic agony.

“It’s like I held an umbrella in a never ending storm, to bloom a flower called me, standing in the way sheltering it in this rain. The flower that is me, that is beautiful and sweet, that bloomed in an endless nightmare. There is no one, no one around, to hold on to me the way I wish to hold on to this flower. This flower is the only thing keeping me company, and I cannot let go, I have to hold tighter, I cannot let go, I cannot be alone, all alone all over again. I am so tired. So tired. Growing a flower that I cannot even hold in my own arms, which can only blossom outside of me, under the umbrella I hold for it. But the storm rages on and there is no one holding on to me, no one is listening to the tears that I cry in this rain, no one is here to hold my cold body in a warm embrace. I’m tired. I am so tired.”


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