4 a.m.

I’m searching for daisies in the cracks of my heart because someone told me there was beauty in a breakdown. As I’m grasping the opaque moment of 4 A.M. drenched by my own tears, I lay next to the toilet vomiting because I can’t get myself together. Hours pass by and my eye bags are as puffy as crinoline, my nose is as red as hibiscus flowers, and my face is as pale as snow. Every feeling I have attempted to suppress rises from my stomach and into my throat like bile that mixes with regret and spews onto the floor.
I attempt to shrug all these demons off and tell myself that I am not the only one feeling this type of way. But the distorted memories of you engage with my functioning on a bi-weekly basis. I know it’s all just influenced by my fight-or-flight hormones rushing through my body. The long lasting flashbulb memories intensify my sadness, and slaps me down face flat on the lonely tiled bathroom floor. Sometimes the memories of you take hold of my fiber being to the point; I can’t recognize myself in the mirror. I know for once, that this is not a creation of a false memory. Its impact is broad. Its purpose holds. Its duration is long, and the capacity is large.
Now there’s this shadow that lingers above me, and I can’t help but want to reach it up and pull it around me. I became a weight that dragged on those I care about, so I cut the rope and watched them float into the sky above me as I fell below. I’ve spent most of my life admiring stars, wishing I could possess or become one, but instead, I became buried six feet deep and never saw them again.

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