Casey Silence

But where else would you find me, if not in conflict; when my mind is a judge and my heart is the convict.

If a woman wants to feel protected, she should get a switchblade, not a boyfriend.

I owe myself so many apologies. I count them whenever I can’t fall asleep and by the time I have confessed my crimes, I am once again down on my knees, asking for forgiveness, given how I spent yet another night– awake in sheets.

The worst part about being sick are the little notes left at my hospital bed, pleading for me to get well soon as if I didn’t know what I ought to do; like I’m not guilty for betraying every bit of affection ever shown to this apathetic soul. Not to sound ungrateful, but I dismissed these misplaced gestures of condolence long ago, along with the hopes of getting better. But enough of me when you’d rather talk about the weather and how it is subject to change, while I’m left to contemplate about the sun and its rays, and how my skin’s never really felt the latter.

People tend to refuse perceiving the world through a broader scope since the further we stray from our point of view, the less important individuals get as a whole; and you can’t have that in times where everybody is special and everyone needs to know. But even so, averting your eyes doesn’t mean the universe will see more in you, than it’ll ever– think of me.

Over the years my spine grew more and more to resemble a vine, bending its way towards the sun, rather than an obstinate plant waiting for light to reach its leaves for months.

My biggest mistake was looking at others and expect to see answers when I should’ve been asking the stranger in the mirror instead.

I took the remnants of my soul, swallowed them whole and nearly choked– to death or at least that’s what it felt like. Though nowadays I know, what’s been really stealing away my breath were all the mines and barbed wire fences, I put up there as defenses when I was but a child, now raping my throat from the inside.

They insist on blood always being thicker than water, but I’ve shed enough of it to have learned: to not die of haemorrhage, one must be hydrated.

I must admit that, perhaps, I fled too much; from my thoughts, my emotions, but more importantly from myself, because tumbling down another rabbit hole seemed far more alluring than searching for its exit. But now that there’s no new misery to drown in and no heartache for me to chase, where am I headed, with no suffering left to escape into, with no one to blame but myself? Maybe now is the time to move on.

And darling, we can take our sweet time cultivating the flowergarden of our dreams, ‘cause there is no need to rush for as long as it’s you choosing me.

I’ve burned a few bridges, then built a home out of the charred remains and ashes.

Those who lost their way, gained the freedom to tread a million new.

I can be a gentle breeze, that sweeps you off your feet or the hurricane, tearing down these walls of yours, carrying the change you desperately seek. And maybe I'm going to be more than you have bargained for, but know that I'll be there, should you ever whisper my name to the wind.

With her eyes set on the moon, she turns to me and sighs, “do you think cats ever doubt that they’re all grey by night?” I laugh as I remind her, why they wouldn’t even care. She says, “but isn’t it so sad to only be aware; to only see your colours, if the sun is there?”

You can’t understand and I cannot explain, how this sickness, running through my veins, is tied to what I am. There’s no cure for personality and even if there were, I’d be scared it’d take the best of me; for I’m nothing but my worst.

But when consciousness turns on itself and the mind contemplates its very own death, the only solace we’re afforded will be to collapse.