Direction

What else is there to say anymore? You've fought a long battle. You've rewritten the fate of a bitter story, and yet the pendulum still swings in discontent. You're pushing a smile so those around you can carry on, but the bile you've swallowed cracks the glass. Now everyone sees you as the problem, not the solution. Behind closed doors, where no one can see, a heart bleeds for someone to save it. The echoes of past fears rise to the surface, and you drown in a silhouette of memories. You want to give up. You're tired of the chest that never lifts. You're tired of your body being a tapestry dedicated to the past. You're tired of words twisting into meanings before they are even formed. You're tired… You want to grab the pills and end all of this right here. You are terminally ill, and you know it. And you could end it. But you don't. You keep hoping for a direction praying that one day these tears will have a different meaning. That your tongue will be an asset, not a liability. And that one day you can finally find a direction where being yourself is enough.