i didn't know what pain was.
pain isn't sitting in your room with the music blasting and the world going in slow motion, because your heart's been metaphorically ripped to shreds and society doesn't understand you and your clothes don't fit [in] and your tongue has unraveled and you're too tired to try and pick it up again.
pain isn't watching your friend walk away and your dog lie under the sheets of autumn leaves and throwing your moth-eaten book into the cardboard box next to him, because if you're going to lose one friend then you might as well lose them all and your arms are sore and your chest hurts, but night is coming and somehow you're sure you'll remember how to breathe by then.
pain isn't sitting in the kitchen with your sister sobbing in the corner and the lights being too bright and remembering the way there was a full bottle of vodka on the shelf yesterday morning, and wondering what it's doing broken and empty on the bottom of the kitchen sink when she's screaming so loud that you speculate how she manages to draw air at all. that isn't pain.
no, pain is sitting in a hospital room that is filled with forced laughter but isn't funny at all when in the center there is a corpse covered with linen and her mouth is open and her lips are moving but life isn't pumping through her veins the way it used to when she was running barefoot through cold tile houses with her hair radiating around her.
pain is watching a body you used to know wither into alien flesh and bones with cramped hands grasping for something that isn't there and eyes turning to you with a wild anxiety that all the calm touches and whispers and spread palms on bare legs can't quell when the only thing in the world you know as true is that the beeping behind you is nothing but the ticking [down] of a malicious clock. pain is staring into a face you love and seeing death instead and knowing that nothing you can do will drive back the demons when they've already ravaged her body and you're exhausted and you're tired and you're sobbing up pieces of your ribcage and closing the door behind you and breathing in the bitter scent of cleaning fluids trying to mask the decay. pain is driving away with tears and spit running down your chin and the wheel spinning in your hands until you don't care if you're facing the horizon or the concrete barrier and gravity is just a joke and fate is a fucking bitch and you have questions and demands on your tongue and you'd hit your knees if you weren't strapped to the seat.
[pain is holding a hand that isn't holding back any longer. pain is loving a heart that isn't beating any further.]
pain isn't watching your friend walk away and your dog lie under the sheets of autumn leaves and throwing your moth-eaten book into the cardboard box next to him, because if you're going to lose one friend then you might as well lose them all and your arms are sore and your chest hurts, but night is coming and somehow you're sure you'll remember how to breathe by then.
pain isn't sitting in the kitchen with your sister sobbing in the corner and the lights being too bright and remembering the way there was a full bottle of vodka on the shelf yesterday morning, and wondering what it's doing broken and empty on the bottom of the kitchen sink when she's screaming so loud that you speculate how she manages to draw air at all. that isn't pain.
no, pain is sitting in a hospital room that is filled with forced laughter but isn't funny at all when in the center there is a corpse covered with linen and her mouth is open and her lips are moving but life isn't pumping through her veins the way it used to when she was running barefoot through cold tile houses with her hair radiating around her.
pain is watching a body you used to know wither into alien flesh and bones with cramped hands grasping for something that isn't there and eyes turning to you with a wild anxiety that all the calm touches and whispers and spread palms on bare legs can't quell when the only thing in the world you know as true is that the beeping behind you is nothing but the ticking [down] of a malicious clock. pain is staring into a face you love and seeing death instead and knowing that nothing you can do will drive back the demons when they've already ravaged her body and you're exhausted and you're tired and you're sobbing up pieces of your ribcage and closing the door behind you and breathing in the bitter scent of cleaning fluids trying to mask the decay. pain is driving away with tears and spit running down your chin and the wheel spinning in your hands until you don't care if you're facing the horizon or the concrete barrier and gravity is just a joke and fate is a fucking bitch and you have questions and demands on your tongue and you'd hit your knees if you weren't strapped to the seat.
[pain is holding a hand that isn't holding back any longer. pain is loving a heart that isn't beating any further.]
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