the ugly truth.

the ugly truth about your pain is that it is unique

sure, other beings might have gone through a similar situation in the general sense

but the level of pain

and heartbreak

and agony

is different for every person unfortunate enough to feel it

people will tell you that they understand

people will tell you that you are not alone

and by all means they could be telling you the truth

but that doesn't mean you feel the pain any less

that doesn't mean you grieve any less

that doesn't mean you're not in distress

the pit inside your chest doesn't shrink any smaller

the weight on your shoulders doesn't feel any lighter

so you might take your lighter and puff a little smoke

you might get a little higher

indulge in a coping mechanism that may seem like the only thing you can control

you don't know your next step because your head isn't clear enough to see through the fog

but you keep trudging on

you start to sink

and then you float

because you cant remember why you were feeling anything in the first place

you enjoy being weightless

existing in a different reality

one that you have created

it is much better than the original

and you fall asleep to a steady heartbeat

but the moment you open your heavy eyelids to the waking world

you realize you have to start all over again

and you dread every moment of being alive until you find something else that masks the pain

like a band-aid with no treatment to the wound

something else will allow you to pretend to be something that you know you are not

balanced

and you're standing at the edge of a knife

preparing to jump into the abyss once again

knowing no one is going to see you because that is exactly how you planned it

that is the way you see yourself and you know not many things would change that

the lows are deep

and dark

and condensed

something like the bottom of the ocean

all you feel is pressure on every cell in your body

and you have yet to feel a high that isn't artificial

you stare at your reflection in the mirror that you have broken trying to claw your way towards a parallel version of yourself

and you ask "who am i?"

you are staring at a shell of a person who has no personality

every single mannerism is a collection of pieces of other people

stolen to build something perfect

but do you like what you have built?

what is a masterpiece if the artist wants to burn it?