Purge

It would have been easier if I just cried it all out: the menacing pain that have been living inside of me; but I have gotten into the habit of covering it up, patching it, and holding it together despite the open wound. The gauze I have expertly placed to stop the bleeding has stuck on my skin, making what hurts me and what (should) give me comfort indistinguishable.  In my constant denial, I’ve carelessly trapped myself in an impermeable bubble, unable to let pain be purged out of me.

Even as I walk in the dark shadows of the night with an awful heartache in tow, I cannot bring myself to breakdown, nor could I let myself be vulnerable enough to call someone and admit that I need help NOW. The closest I could get to was to send out a seemingly nonchalant text message, plainly saying that I went out to stroll around the village — as if it was a mundane thing and as if my situation didn’t bother me very much.

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