Silent Suffering

Close your eyes.  Calm down.  Breathe.  These were all things the more sensible part of my brain had told me that dreary night.  On that night, I hated myself.  I just wanted to tear myself apart.  And I almost did.  I thrashed around in my bed, when everyone else thought I was sleeping, tearing at my skin with my nails.  I didn’t care as I saw blood bloom out of the red marks my nails had raked across my arm.  Tears didn’t come; I just felt empty inside.  I wanted to scream, but I knew I couldn’t.  I had become so used to suffering silently by myself, but it never became any easier.  I didn’t expect it to.  And yet, I still hated myself.  Hated myself for no other particular reason, other than the fact that I was human, and destroyed things, without even meaning to.  Hated myself because, I, like so many others, destroy almost everything I touch, and I cannot help it; it is part of being human.  I don’t want to be a human anymore.  I want to be a bird, a songbird.  Then at least, I wouldn’t have to keep destroying things.  Then, I could just fly away from all of my troubles and sing until my throat was sore.