Published by: Marino Peralta
Date Published: February 11, 2025
Time Published: 9:40 AM
Category: Prose
Theme: The cycle of self-destruction and the haunting grip of pain.
I have worn the ache like a second skin, something 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, stitched into me with red thread and ill intent. It is a parasite that feeds not just on marrow but on memory, an invader that has made a cathedral of my ribs, hollowing me into something almost sacred in its ruin. I have held joy before—yes, I have cupped it in my hands like a dying star, felt it flicker, felt it sigh against my palms before it extinguished, swallowed by the gravity of something 𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿, 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗵𝘂𝗻𝗴𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗿.
There is a part of me, feral and unsleeping, that mourns the absence of suffering more than its presence. It gnaws at the edges of stillness, bares its teeth at peace, and drags me back—𝙖𝙡𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠—to the wreckage I keep mistaking for home.
There is no one left to blame. No savior, no hand reaching through the rot, no voice cutting through the dull, dead hum of static—only me, circling the drain like a wound that refuses to clot. I have stopped clawing for the light. Stopped begging for rescue. What use is 𝘀𝗮𝗹𝘃𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 when 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘴𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴, 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘦𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘩? I have built this mausoleum brick by brick, sealed the doors with trembling hands, and I will haunt it until the weight of it collapses and takes me with it.
My flesh is young, but my mind is carrion, something picked clean by time and teeth I cannot see.
I drag myself forward, wreckage trailing behind me like the tattered ends of an old prayer, and just when I think I have smothered it—just when I think the thing inside me has gone quiet—𝙄 𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙞𝙩. 𝘼𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣.
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