A poison involuntarily swallowed,
that began as nothing more than a point,
at the pit of my stomach,
But then began to crave more.
It was barely long before before it creeped into my veins,
And my every thought,
Spilling out onto my hands and the words I wrote,
And onto my lips and the words I spoke,
And did it have a flair for making the heart hard, with despair,
One that would with every second grow.
And now the rock that was once my own beating flesh,
Would rise up to my throat to watch me thrash,
And I could do nothing more but drown in my own self,
For it hurt as much to give in as it did to carry on.
And I could at times do nothing more than stare,
At the world that used to be bright but now had died over and over and over again.
And did I think I’d die with the world the next time it did,
Given the relentless pain that would spare me not,
Like a multiple blades stuck indefinitely in the crevices of my spine,
It hurt to move, so I could only stay still and (try not to) rot.
Were it not for a crack in my world I hadn’t noticed before,
And the small strand of sunlight that through it would pour,
An elation, a relief that was far beyond compare,
Although subtle and faint, I was sure it was there.
And from then on the blades seem to hurt no more,
Or they still did, in actual fact,
But I had somehow become numb to the spikes and had begun to heal despite the wounds being left wide open.
And still am.