The inevitable occurrences in life seem to be the events that hurt us the most. And the more I witness day by day, the more pain I lie in at night. I want this "God" to be an outlet, but I am incapable of grasping any sort of belief. I want to be able to smile because I'm alive, instead i cringe at the thought of another day. I want to love and be loved, but fear overwhelms these possibilities. The tears that have seeped into my pillow tell a tale more memorable than the nightly bedtime stories my mother could recite with ease. I cannot erase it. I cannot forget. But I dwell & let it captivate me. As if my insecurities are a weight pressing on my chest. Merely letting up, allowing a minuscule amount to air through, to keep me alive, suffering.

My biggest mistake was loving unconditionally and forgiving an upwards of zero times. The lengthy script of satin wrapped lies tore apart the ligaments binding my sanity. A sinful deceit, even through the eyes of an atheist. My chest is heaving, searching, not for the air or blood that circulates through my lungs and veins, but for the heart I lack, figuratively stating: my disease.