My writing

The day my heart stopped beating

I cannot remember the first time I hurt for you,

the first time the veins in my wrists split open into a rainbow of strings that played the tune of a funeral song while you screamed at me with your eyes that I was all wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

The first time my skull was shattered by the fragments of your mind’s imagination as to what I should be. And who I should be. And how I should speak. You were a continuous migraine just pushing on the back of my vividly alight skull, wanting to put out the fire. Sit up. Get up. Who said that you could be a crier.

The first time bruises would appear and smudge the pretty pictures in my mind. Making the colour drip and slip down my face painted with pain and beautiful broken smiles. Smile. And smile again. Wash your apparent sins in the sink and apologise. The sink is overflowing with deathly black skies.

Distract yourself with fairy tales.

The first time my mind was shattered, by my hand that cupped a blade. That would carefully cut through the pain that you spat out with fury that was so evidently written across the way I changed. But I will rewrite it for you, so the pain remains. Dirty. Disgusting. A disease of a stain.

The first time my heart stopped beating.

And the continuous screaming which was an instant reaction to those words you slapped in my face every day stopped screaming, and the bird strung up in this cage derived from your very own venom of vengeance stopped fleeting. That was the day my heart stopped beating.

And now I am left picking up the pieces of my fragile heart, and you’re sitting at my doorway a silent assassin just watching me pick up the broken pieces with silent tears with the silent mechanics of my brian and mind slowly doing overtime, they are beating too fast. Too quick. Too slow. Too tall. Too small.

I will never be sorry again.

I cannot remember the first day I hurt for you,

When my veins in my wrists were split open, when my skull shattered, when bruises appeared and happiness was smeared. When my mind was split open, into a thousand fragile pieces. When my heart stopped beating. Sit up. Get up. Who said you could be a crier. My heart… sit up. Get up.

My heart stopped beating.

Visible scars were not there, they were neither physical colours and patterns or a figment of my imagination. They were just stuck in between, where I was dead and drunk on my nightmares,

but not one person could see.

That was the day my heart stopped beating.

Broken strings now play the tune of a funeral song. And in the distant I can see your eyes as I scream at you.

Wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong.

I sit up. Get up.

Distract yourself with fairy tales.


Thank you so much for reading, If you enjoyed please do like, comment and follow my blog, it means so much to me!

You can read my last post here.

Love, Misstery


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