Some things are too painful to put in to this space, and some have never made it out of my journal. This one should perhaps stay there. But maybe, said aloud, the words will diminish the power?
It's in these last moments of the night
the pain comes like a silent killer.
I'm somewhere between asleep and awake,
silent, still, on the edge of oblivion
when the knife that sits always within me
slowly starts twisting
silver and glinting.
It shreds my insides.
I sit atop the knife point of grief
silent, still, waiting for oblivion
tears dropping from the corners of my eyes.
I keep some of the most painful words private for your sake more than mine, I think. The sharing of my grief hasn't brought me any regret, as yet.
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