Brains!

I've broken them, people I cared about have suffered them too, and now mine is diseased, not yet shattered. It should be called poisoned torso. I feel like liquid pain is being injected, then shooting around invisible piping, in an oval shape from my pelvis to my collar bones. After, I feel it settling in my under arms, and around my lungs. There's a loss of appetite, and a need to expend all your energy and mentally you have to have some kind of outlet or you'll lose your honor, lose your pride, stoop to new lows. Writing is rescuing me.

But I am just diseased. There is hope. I haven't given up. I haven't. You see there is a string, a string sewn into the fabric of what I had absolute faith in. In that I have trust. And in myself I believe.

When the poison subsides, it is when I am being productive. It is when I think positively, clearly, and un-illusioned. It is when I know there is no malice, never was, and absolutely no way to avoid this poison. It is when I am with people I care about. It is when I think of wonderful memories. It is when I think of who I am, and what is great about me. It is when I think of what could be. It is when I am writing.