I close my eyes, and my insides tremble. They’re on the verge of falling apart and swirling around inside of me into a liquified mess of blood, bones, confusion, disbelief, startlement, fear, hopelessness, and uncried tears.
I want to think of music, but all that comes to mind is poetry about death, sang in notes of sad desperation. And I curl myself up in it, like a dark blanket that can hide me from the rest of the world. I lay here waiting for someone to jerk it off of me and wrap their arms around me and pour the sunshine into my soul, but it’s an inconvenience. It’s tiring. It’s not worth it. No one sees, or they have their own blankets of darkness to both hate and adore. I am the only one who knows about me, but instead of turning my sack of loneliness into a cape of independence and hope and music about love, I bury myself. I drink in the darkness and drift further into my black hole. The void eats at my insides, swirling them until I’m an undistinguishable blob of gray.
My eyes are still wide open, staring into the void, piercing my own soul like ice, too frozen to let any tears escape.
It will take some time, but I’ll wake up. I’ll force myself to stare into the sun. I’ll blink, and the tears will run down my cheeks. Then I’ll use my own hands to unbury myself. I’ll be all right. I always am. This happens all the time.