When it doesn't hurt like it used to

The pain, it feels like an Infinite loop of torture. Everything keeps hurting and you don’t just feel miserable—death becomes a dark fantasy you wish to experience. You wait for it, you long for it, you wait for the bliss that comes with nothingness, but the heavens refuse your prayers.

You lay awake at 3am, staring at the blank wall, desperately trying to fall into a peaceful slumber—your reprieve. An escape, you so desperately need. Your eyes burn with a ferocity of burning embers, holding a brewing, smoldering heat. Your eyelids, heavy with the tide of unspoken words, reduced to trembling crescents. And the tears, they pour from your eyes like the burst of a dam. Steady, neverending.

Your body becomes your own prison, a vessel, binding you to the realm of reality, with chains heavier than the weight of your own conscience. A lump—a boulder, taken refuge in the hollow of your throat. Words feel heavy, pressing like a weight against your tongue.

Your body screams for rest, but your eyes tell a different tale. Your mind keeps replaying the details of every second of every memory, and you’re left to stand there and watch, like a spectator of your own damnation.

Seconds bleed into minutes, minutes turn into hours. You eat—barely. Sleep—rarely. Days become a repetitive nightmare that you just can’t claw your way out of.

Grasping onto anything, anything to relieve this pain, gnawing at your chest, the constant sting in your eyes, the tears that don’t stop pouring. You think you don’t have any more tears left to shed, yet, they fall, they keep falling and you keep hoping to feel lighter with every drop that escapes.

Self-loathing becomes a constant presence in your depleting life, reminding you of everything you lost, making you relive every single tragic moment, again, again, and again. As it wields your pain like a whip, lashing deep strokes against your already tender, overworked heart.

You’re no longer living, merely surviving. Unrelenting, hollow, invisible. Like a smudge on a window—you only notice it when the light hits just right, and even then, you’re not sure if it’s on the inside or the outside anymore.

Life progresses, time flies while you barely make it out of limbo. Some days are more bearable than others, and some days, you find your solitude at the bottom of a bottle of pills.

Disoriented, drifting in and out of consciousness. but at least it doesn’t hurt in the soul-crippling way it used to. At least you’re given an escape from this torture.

You notice how beautiful the stars look, how the breeze whistles in its calming allure, like the whispers of a chant. Urging, forcing your soul to sing along. You notice the sweetness in your early morning coffee. You sit through an hour of your favorite telenovelas without the memories plaguing your thoughts.

The constant knot in your chest begins to unfold, like vines uncurling their daunting possession on their prey. You don’t notice it at first. Then one morning, you breathe. And you realize you’ve been holding your breath for what feels like an eternity.

You stop seeking closure at the mercy of another. You don’t wait for a text that’ll never come, you don’t hope for a call that’ll never ring. Waiting for someone who’ll never show. The closure you desperately seek, you find only within yourself.

The memories don’t visit you at 3am anymore. They come during the day, when you’re making coffee or walking past a familiar street, and they stay for a moment, then leave. You don’t fight them. You don’t have to. They don’t feel like wounds anymore. They feel like scars. Still there. Still yours.
Because time became medicine, and the wound on your heart doesn’t throb like it used to; it doesn’t hurt like it used to.

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