Open Wound.

Walking around with a broken heart is a struggle not talked about enough. You stand there watching others pass by and your life running right in front of you. But you’re stuck, you’re unable to move. You function on auto pilot and breathing becomes a chore. People talk to you and everything they say bothers you. It feels like a permanent hangover you can’t get rid of.

You try to tell yourself you’ll be fine. You’ve heard that time will heal you and that it all happened for a reason, but none of these cliche phrases help you in any way. It’s all too generic and pointless. You’re waiting for something to occur to make you feel better, although deep down you know it won’t. 

You look away from places you used to go to together and hate anything that reminds you of them, when in reality it just makes you miss them even more. You’re in pieces and with every motion you break a little more. You keep falling but can’t seem to understand where the rock bottom is, it keeps getting worse and worse. 

You relapse. You regret it but it somehow made you feel sane for a second. Relief mixed with a bit of false hope, that will soon turn into salt inside your wounds. You took steps back. You have to do it all over again. 

You’re tired. Will this ever end? Will it go away? Do you have what it takes to survive? After it’s all over, then what? Just another memory saved in your brain. Just one more scratch that will heal but leave a permanent scar. One more page for the book you’d rather burn than read again.

You’re tired but you tried.

Athina, x.