Torture Room

Torture Room

On afternoons when breathing is uncomfortable because breathing is the only thing you focus on.
You would hear thunderclaps call out to you like little brother before dinner,
And you would wonder how they, too, know your name.
You would wish you could trade places with your shadow;
Become nothing but a fragile sketch of darkness, Monochrome and without flesh.
And you would forget that shadows are just slaves to unconsciousness,
You would forget that shadows are immortal.

On those afternoons I cannot help but hide myself inside this body which I was gifted.
This body is the only thing that should matter;
A refuge made of flesh and blood,
Yet sometimes I wonder if my heart is a water fountain,
Sending streams that run in peaceful ripples down into my veins.
That would explain why some days I feel like I’m drowning inside my own self,
Like I am swimming within the anatomy of a body I cannot escape from;
A refuge yet a torture room–
My body is such a painful paradox.
Sometimes when everyone is asleep and the night is so silent, that I can almost hear my own heartbeat,
I read random chapters of books I’ve read before out loud over and over again,
Just so I can be comfortable hearing the sound of my own voice;
A silly attempt to get rid of these clumps of glass that are stuck within my throat.

I hope to look back at the times I’ve hated myself,
At the nights I felt hopeless and miserable
Like I’m the only piece of ice refusing to melt on a sea of drowned volcanoes erupting.
I hope to look back and laugh when I’m finally comfortable dragging around the weight of my own skin.

READ ALSO:  Beauty of the mind

📷: Matheus Bertelli.


Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here