The weight of the world and the strength of the world both crashing against my shoulders, a war waged in my core
The pangs of pain that crack my spine and the healing that helps me piece myself together, forcing the shattered pieces in and out of place even if not accurately.
Every new blow makes the existing cracks smaller, transforming my vitals into powder. The strength almost can’t catch up with the waves of excruciation, and I don’t know how much more is left in me that would help me rebuild.
Rebuilding creates new forms of me because I’m never really the same. The shattered pieces leave cautious reminders of pain that pulsate stronger or weaker depending on their mood, completely throwing me off guard and hooking me onto the lies of the pain’s suppression.
The cracks allow the water to sink my ship deeper, and I find myself looking up at the sun through the blur of the water, unable to break the surface tension.
Dayana 