Pain from a different perspective.
If I had to choose one feeling to live with for the rest of my life, I'd let pain be the ink that stains me for all my days. For pain, I know, will never leave me, and this hole that has been blasted through my resolve, will never truly heal, for a scar will remain, and what else is there to do but accept that which defines you, rather, something you have let define you? A scar, I know, provides at least some comfort in knowing that I can still feel something that will never leave me. Pain.
Pain is everything. It's the smell of the wind and snow, and the familiar buildings upon which memories were honed and sharpened, preparing them for the inevitable plunge they would one day take into the fabrics of my soul. The scents and facades of color and ash that swirl in my world, blending and morphing together like storms of the most malevolent assemblies. I feel your warmth on me still, but only just, only now, the warmth suffocates me in cold adolescence.
As such, this hole in me is black and is voracious in its consumption. Every day function feeds its ire, just as inspiration is robbed prematurely of its power to push onward. And yet onward I go, as a hole, as a dusky cloud poisoning reason with the tainted feelings of the past. Feelings of an old me that still linger in my bones, like scripts of long dead poets no longer accessible. But as it withers, so too does it grow, like the flame of a candle.