Children of the Grave
In my world, dark was the only light. Happiness? I couldn’t find it. All that I saw or felt was but a dream within a dream.
Sometimes, when I woke up in the middle of the night, I liked to look out the window and see the stars who were there no matter what. They were there for me when blood was streaming down the blade that I used sometimes to cut my bad feelings away. And there were there when it was 1:30 a.m. and I was sitting on the floor drowning in my own tears.
They understood that when I said I was tired, or fine, what I really meant was help me I’m dying, my soul was burning slowly into the ashes of the oblivion.
The stars knew what was going on, what was happening. In my world where no-one cared for no-one, they were only on whose shoulders I’d shed my tears on.
It came on a night where there was a bloody battle in my head. The thoughts were starting to win. Until I was weak on my knees pleading for help…somewhere. I wanted to be free. I wanted the night sky to not shout my name anymore saying it was time. I wanted the stars to shine bright without me, proving that every living soul would still be happy when I’m not there. They were calling for me.
I wanted to touch those stars.
I jumped out the window to fly up to them, thinking they would welcome me, comfort me, and I will be safe.
The last intimate thing I did was death — the wonderful kiss to the floor after jumping out the window.
I left my body, but I, my soul, didn’t fly up to the stars. I was sadder than ever. I had made yet another mistake.
I traipsed along the land. The sky was bright the day they buried me. I watched as my family dressed in black, my mother weeping endlessly, my father blacked-out, and they got ready for the last time to see me as they lowered it into my casket. Until that moment, I always thought it would be the first time someone cared. But it wasn’t. They had cared. Always
The night was falling for me. The sky was getting dark, too dark to see. The stars didn’t come. They never did. They never will.
