Epitaph on a scarred heart

When no tears are left to cry, you get a cold and empty feeling inside.

Once upon a time her heart shattered. It’s been bleeding ever since. Nothing in this world sufficed to anesthetize the pain.

Here lies nameless, faceless, and melancholy. She was every emotion, and idea passed through the mind of a suffering woman in the shadowy hours of the night. 

No individual word could characterize her, so we will not let words define who she was.

She didn’t have a favorite season. Because her pain bound her in a dull blanket through all of them. 

During winter, spiderwebs made of ice and frosting crawled towards her and made her thoughts dark and her body numb. In spring, her pretty thoughts converted into a heave of colors that suffocated her, making her words bittersweet and sketchy. During summer, the sun forced her out of bed and the shore pulled her towards their hell like sirens, drowning her in blue impurity. And in autumn, the breeze whistled on her face as the multicolored leaves danced with her hair, each time the breeze will get a little more combative and the leaves, a little less cheerful, until she no longer had hair, or a face to show. And was bleeding, crying. Alone.

People loved to throw themselves at her, but she put up walls. Beautiful walls made of glass. From the first review, people had the impression that they were closer to her. Warily she’d watch them beat themselves against this same wall trying to grab her or send her a message. In the interim, she would try to get rid of the frosty snow-water pooling at her feet, gradually rising.

Her blood and words thrown at her before she had the energy to build a barrier, makes up the water: stupid, bitch, naive, ugly, not-good-enough, not deserving, black, worthless, die-die-die.

The words would weave around her ankles and with their sharp points, dig into her flesh. No blood comes out. The damages were discernible only to her. She would get persuaded to open the glass coffin and let the water drain out, but she dared not. The people outside beating themselves against her adamant glass would absorb the water into their pores and fire it back out as flames. Flames that would make her blood burn, cooking her from the innards out. 

So, she watches the water rise, hoping that if she holds her chin raised, she won’t be able to see the ending coming. 

Be brave. Be strong. Keep it together. She suggests to herself.

The world doesn’t care about you. The world doesn’t care if you die. 

And neither do you.