Monday, Tuesday & Wednesday have been forgotten.

Monday’s Massochism..

Through the eyes of a little insecure little girl, one man find’s his way to stand out through the rest. The little girl looking up to her father, she finds a fresh blanket of safety curled in his arms, cooing with an adoration many have lost. He stands up to the strongest of nightmares, holds her so tight of an invincible shelter meant to hold out the biggest of aftershocks from the most well-designed of bombs meant to destroy whole continents. He becomes a superhero, through the eyes of that little girl, whose strength outstands superman’s, whose wisdom surpasses even the most all knowing of gods. Through those eyes, nothing is impossible as long as he remains able to scoop her up and convince her everything will be okay, shows her that nothing, not even hell’s darkest demons, can harm her. So what happens when her superman find’s his kryptonite? When the towers come crumbling down,  crippling the superhero once adored through a little girl’s eyes, now grown up not so oblivious to the cold hard world. Who knew that something that seemed once so solid somehow slowly deteriorates under the shell of solid stone? Who knew it would be possible that the little girl is left to the too-big shoes of her superhero? How does she find that light that had only been lit by her superman, how can she stand up tall and mighty when her foundation is crumbling around her? Who will squeeze her in their grip and protect them from the world? How can she even imagine to fix him, when she can’t even find a way to fix herself?  Pretending to blind herself from a problem growing within that kryptonite, how can she hold on when even her superhero has lost his grip? Who on this earth could save her, when she’ll give it all just to save him? Who’s gonna protect her, when her daddy is gone?


Wednesday is Wasted.

They have no idea how much turmoil my mind is tumbling into. No idea of how much it hurts, how everything that seemed so solid flying high on bliss seems to just crash and tear everything apart. They can’t see it, couldn’t even imagine it. No idea of how the need of just curling into a ball and disappearing into my own self-pity seems to just engulf me. The worst part is not even knowing why, I search so hard for the meaning behind it all. The broken heart that never really healed, or maybe it just healed so poorly that the smallest of things seem to tear the very seams apart. Trying to find an answer is so much harder, so much harder when the ones closest have absolutely no idea of the inner demon bubbling inside. That stupid inner demon that only lets itself out when all eyes around have sealed away from it, how he just seems to tear apart everything. Everything thought built of solid steel, strong as a spider’s silk. The overwhelming disparity, possibly from lonliness, possibly from a sick masochistic part of me that hides in the deepest darkest shadows of my mind. They have absolutely no idea that behind that smile, that mask, there is the demon tearing apart every shred of happiness that false smile personifies. Not even I know why, I have no idea of when it all begun. It was one of those things that just seemed to be a part of every day, every night, beckoning itself, tormenting me to just tear apart. One of those things that just seemed something to ‘get used too,’ as long as I can remember, that demon tore its way into me, feeding off the sorrows, quenching every thirst off of tears, and yet it still hungers, thirsts, for it. Whatever ‘it’ may be, whatever spoils of the day seem to seep in at the latest part of night, haunting my bliss. Is happiness ever real, it seems true enough with the smiles and laughs of all familiarity surrounds me but somehow it just disintegrates, disappears when those faces are long gone, tucked in for the night. All bliss is forgotten, the second that face, that voice, disappears. It feels eons ago when an honest smile crossed my lips, when a whole-hearted laugh echos from my throat. The overwhelming need to help convinces me to hide that demon behind a mask, yet I’m still unsure of what that mask is, still torn in two unable to tell which is mask and which is beholder. Demolished, still can’t find a blame even when blame is turned amongst myself, if not me then who? Enough blame to go around, but none of it true enough to find the cause. Noone will know, as much as every fiber of my being screams for help, not a soul will hear the faintest utter of help. Even those closest to me, those who caught only a small glimpse of the demon, will never know truly of the way he holds me down. Surely, not even I have got a long enough glimpse at the demon. Not a soul will know.

The End

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