These sad songs won’t leave my head.
It’s my favourite singers, haunted smoky voices murmuring in my head.
Minor chords and sighs, they exhale like cigarette smoke.
I hate the smell of cigarettes. That stench of burning lungs and promised in death.
Yet.
I indulge in this brand of death, these songs of sadness.
I inhale their exhale deeply, until I make their story mine.
Or their stories are really mine.
I tear away carefully built happy places in my head and examine the rotten wood and quick sand that is its foundation.
Gone.
All dead and gone.
All is a lie.
Abandon hope, all ye who put thine earbuds in ear to imbibe of this aural cyanide.
It is in these moments I forget every vestige of happiness I have.
Life. Love. Sustenance.
I pick manically at old scabs until their new.
I pick at ulcerated wounds until they bleed.
And I keep picking, even as it hurts.
I’m trying to make it heal, I tell myself but I’m no healer.
So, I muddle through mess of blood and pulpy flesh.
But I resist the urge to sever everything in despair.
The songs of sadness tell me to sever everything.
I resist.
And in my resistance, dare I hope to find my salvation?
So, I yawn in class and wipe the tears I pretend have come from boredom.
I wear my glasses to hide red eyes behind thick frames and I fake a sneeze just to have a reason to wipe a dripping nose.
I think about treating myself to school lunch I may not be able to afford.
And I smile.

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