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. 




Restart Button


Like a ten-year-old poster on the wall, she tears her old life apart from a surface.

She wants to feel new.

She wants to restart; she yearns for resurrection.

Yes, she fantasizes that every single day–to die and to be reborn into a new life where she would still have the knowledge and wisdom to do everything with caution and cold calculation.

In this life, everything she touches seem to puff out life and stay dead forever.. cold, lifeless, useless, and brown.

“Why do I feel like something was taken away from me? A gape in my chest howls a weird, dissatisfied cry which echoes inside my skull.” She thinks.

Regrets fill her. She tastes it on her cupid’s bow as she licks her violently chapped upper lip.

Professionals always say that recognizing the problem is the first sign of change.

But she wants change to happen in a blink of an eye–and that’s making her suffer.. rot.. drown… and sink deeper into oblivion.