I have waged a war for so long, I have forgotten how to stop.
I forgot how to breathe, and what it means to breathe. An involuntary movement of the lungs, yes, but why? Why do my lungs carry on with this movement when I have given it all up?
Is it too because my tiresome soul does not know how to stop? All that it knows is to fight, all that it was ever taught.
No one taught me how to blow off a match, only how to light one...and then another
and another.
And another, until I burn the house down and there's nothing left for me to do other than to hold the burden on my shoulders, the burden that was never mine; the burden of committing a crime that I don't know how to give up.
I don't know how to stop.
I am only acquainted with the beginnings
So now I sit here in a fire wild enough to melt my skin but not just enough to melt my human heart. A fire that I do not know how to put off.
I wish I did.
So I do what I'm meant to, what I'm given no choice against...I initiate another beginning.
I have waged a war against myself, I announce with a smirk dancing on my lips. The lips of someone who has vowed to ruin. I have waged a war against myself thus a war against ink. I must not set myself free.
How does one call a truce? I do not know. In fact, I do not believe in anything of such a nature. Forgive and forget?
I used to dream of a saviour, one who would put an end to this war, and call a truce on my behalf. Someone who would look behind the armour to find that I am not a fighter, not a soldier. But I am someone bound by a curse cast by my own guilty hands, a curse that does not allow me to stop
To breathe out.
To relax.
Perhaps I should be grateful because it keeps me on my feet. It does not pay much heed to my shoulders that ache or hands that have tremors. It keeps me breathing. And so, despite wanting to, I hang on to dear life because I have no other choice.
Because I don't know how to stop.