It’s kind of you to visit with us again.
You’re sitting there, alone in the dark — in that measly bedroom, the sheets haven’t been changed, and it’s been a while since you’ve been outdoors.
You’ve been told to keep quiet for so long, you’ve forgotten the sound of your voice.
Gulping every ounce of criticism you receive, misunderstood every act of kindness for cowardice, here you are — alone.
You’re thinking if any one will notice, if any one will care.
For all the people that you’ve been there for, will they ever be there?
To slit that wrist, as you find the nerve to finally scratch the itch you’ve been rubbing, with razor blades that feel alot less sharper, alot less painful than the words that seemed to have penetrated your tainted soul.
Nobody will find me, and nobody will care.
Nobody you know of will ever come to rescue, those tears will forever evaporate in the puddle of blood you’ll leave behind; wondering of what a mess you’ve made.
Rejection feels alot less like criticism, but rather an anchor of a world that seems against you.
The ship you were sailing in, has finally met the storm it was longing for.
Here you are, feeling sorry.
Of why it must be this way, of why this choice seems like the only escape.
You’ll do it, not once, but twice more; in another lifetime, through a different method.
You’ll survive, wondering why all along life just doesn’t give up on you.
Only then will you realise, all along just how you’ve been misguided.
A helping hand will come across, you’ll be dismissive at first; for you’ve been deceived for too long, you’ve forgotten what it feels like to find someone who has faith in you.
It’ll piece you back together, in this pursuit you’ll follow along a path much different to the once you’d felt you were destined for.
The hatred will dissolve into a lasting memory of comfort; of how through even the lowest of lows you found hope in the most selfless actions of your misery.
You’ll learn to forgive, move forward — not letting the past define you, but acknowledging its shadowy presence.
You’ll look back on a photograph of your younger self, and wonder how it could’ve all ended in that moment.
Had the coincidence of salvation not struck its course.
You’ll rejoice, in that moment — nothing else will matter, except for where we are now; dear old friend.
We’ll meet again in the distant future, and you’ll say to yourself;
“All along I’ve wondered,
…how have you been Mr. Horror?
…it’s been a while since we’ve had this conversation;
yet, it’s kind of you to visit with us again.”