Disappointment smells like the burnt edges of the books in Fahrenheit 451

The city becomes too small at night.

 

The world will close in and curtains must be drawn

The shadows will not go.

 

I will hold myself into

anything;

abyss

solitude

emptiness

 

I will carry myself through

hell

but it will not be beautiful

The sun still rises

and people still die everywhere

 

This aching is

not mine alone

But my body is

mine to love

and the hurt is inside of cracks; inside of darkened spaces

That have forever gone untouched.

 

The things that fill me

are not what should;

the lives i live

are blemished with damp spots of bloodied hands and bruised with self-inflicted hurt.

I am not the only one hurting

but my heart is an organ shaped unlike any other.

The beating will start and stop

and it will not do so on account of anyone other than this girl I am and always will be.