Death creates life; it all makes sense now. It takes the death of hope to find the meaning of life.
Holding on to this darkness is the only thing that is delivering me from falling into it. It is my home, my armor. It is who I am.
And if I could use this darkness to shield myself from the ugly reality, I can use it to consume those who wish to see me break; I can let it creep under their skin; all it takes is a touch, a kiss, a whisper.
If I count the number of times I’ve been told to see life and leave this heaviness behind, I will run out of stars in the sky.
How am I to see one without its parallel? I may not know it all, but this much I comprehend: Life without death is oblivion—death without living is a waste.
My darkness does not come without blinding light, and my light does not shine without casting a shadow that could devour this world.
I know who I am. I know how deep my scars go, like a fault in the surface of the Earth, cracking further each day until I reach the gates of Hell. A thought that is terrifying to most and comforting to me.
I grew up knowing that I cannot trust my own eyes, that I can see what isn’t there, that I can feel the emptiness and hear the silence.
It all makes sense now; for the longest time, I thought I’d lost my voice, when in reality, I never had one—a siren without a song. I am still composing the hymns that would create a voice of divinity.
Maybe I can’t save everything, but if I can save one thing, it will be the darkest monsters I call my children. I have no names for them, no faces, no voices, only a familiarity with their essence. They dwell within me, and one day I will release them from my soul and into my world—a thought that is harrowing to most and mollifying to me.