It’s Over when the Demons Stay Silent (for Longer than a Minute)

Don’t tell me I’m being overdramatic when you don’t know how it feels to barely be able to lift your head off the pillow. The idea of pain isn’t just physical; it’s a concrete block I swallowed that’s worming its way down to my stomach. These tears that stain my pillow case are from memory, a road I memorized even though I haven’t traveled down it in years.

This pain is like a scar, though it’s not vivid nor searing anymore, it still burns though it is faint to the eye. I woke up with another nightmare, another flashback, another headache. You tell me I’ll be okay if I quit dwelling on the past. My home is built in the sands, and I keep fearing I’ll be washed away in the shores.

I remember the brutality, the fear, lying in bed with bated breath. Tell me it’s over. Sure, it’s over, but when do the nightmares cease to veil my eyes?



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