Perhaps, the only thought that elicits a smirk as I stare at the empty walls is the fact that even after everything you couldn't break my heart. I had already been walking the tightropes, more or less. Was ready to let go of the slippery parapet when you came along and caught onto my hand. Your pleading eyes were somehow more appealing than the dive behind me that was meant to be my escape. In that moment, as I was dangling by the only thread of your hand holding mine, there was a relief beginning to surge through me. There was a part of me so high on your touch that it wanted to keep breathing. Was I doubtful of my will to end it all? I do not know. But regardless of my denial, the choice between living for you and dying for myself had been made. And the calm that it came with was so utterly consuming that I didn't realise when you let go. It took me a while to register that the string had broken leaving me at the mercy of freefall and before I could question the sudden emptiness in my hands, it was benumbed. The impact of the fall braced me before I could fall apart. I hit the ground before you could break my heart.
I did not break through. I could not break free. I surrendered. To make the chains stop hurting.
I often falter infront of the mirror because it reflects my reality. And only in it's dreaded face do I acknowledge my incessant addiction to fantasies. I am but an escapist, I murmur, staring into the mirror. The mirror smirks. People have it worse, it says. Heavens know the weight on my shoulders is enough to make my back droop but the mirror tells me, even with blunders as indelible as a birthmark, I am just an insignificant speck fading away to infinity, and that ought to offer me a moment of a few unburdened breaths. The mirror asks me to stop romanticising the pain in hopes of healing because true healing begins when you stop craving it. When you come to terms with the fact that some scars are going to stay, and not as embellishments. Scars are all they'll ever be. There will be no beauty to them. Just ugliness. And terror. But less pain and maybe one day, enough strength to narrate their stories. The mirror is not wrong. Not at all. Then why do I feel like a hostage of it's arguments?
Why do I take shelter within poems even when they're to no avail? For I am now, at the end of this one and the chains still won't stop grappling.