Static. Not loud enough to drown out every other noise and thought and synapse firing in your brain, but not quiet enough to hear a pin drop.
Static that, for as long as I could remember, kept itself running in the back of my head tirelessly.
Tauntingly? No.
This was the kind of static that fizzled under my breath the same way you can hear the hum of a radio groaning softly under the music.
It’s quiet, calculated, cunning. The humming drags on slowly. It’s almost tangible, the way it peels itself off and sticks on to every passing thought like a fucking leech. But it’s quick enough to coil up under my skin at the slightest suspicion that something is wrong with me.
I feel it crawling, itching every single part of my body. I scratch at myself, but it doesn’t work. With the blade of a sharpener, I cut into my skin and watch the blood pour out. Dark red streams that will eventually heal.
For a while it works. I convince myself that the throbbing on my right forearm is a release of the static and that I no longer feel the need to pick at my skin. That the swollen lines look that way because my skin and muscle are not accustomed to the absence of poison in my veins.
I convinced myself that the only tangible way to hurt was by making myself bleed and ache every single day. That I deserved it. That there was no other way to feel pain.
It was not until I discovered the beauty of writing down every broken thought I’ve ever had that I’d find otherwise.
This is my tangible way to hurt. This is how I feel pain. With every word I write, one tear sheds and my heart aches a little bit less. This is my happiness, sadness, anger, and hurt rolled into one. With every stanza, a small piece of my heart can finally rest.
