The Beauty of Suffering

I taste the warm salt through my teeth.

I missed this, really–pain–crying, grimacing silently and clenching my fists till my palms blossom into white and then my blood drains.

 

Pain. Tasteful pain–plunging deeper into pain until my tongue dries, and tear ducts on the inside corner of my eyes sting.

I’m seeing the simultaneous blurring and clearing of my vision as my last tear flows.

There’s a hollow block inside me being dragged down by ropes, tugging the walls of my wretched heart.

I try touching the ceiling from my bed, only to realize my hand is miles, miles, and miles away from it.

Everything is so beautiful. I feel alive. I’m a person.

Pain is good, it is. It juxtaposes the tainted from the pure.

My heart is screaming.

How lucky I am to have felt, than not to have felt at all. 

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