Pieces Of Me [an online journal of sorts]

Entry Ninety-five: Stockholm

There's a sadness in me. Some days I keep it hidden, folded into my skin. Other days I don't have the strength to bother with disguises; I let it ooze out and pool around my knees. It's a constant, as is my screaming,

Get it out!

begging,

Get it out of me!

As if feelings are parasites invading your body and all it takes is a scalpel and a set of steady hands to take them out. As if feelings are pieces of glass and stone that got stuck in your palms after a fall and you can just pluck them out.

The sadness is always there, blooming and withering with the seasons. I can no longer remember a time it didn't hold me hostage.

Get out, I say again, quietly, resigned and unconvinced, curling into myself.

It doesn't. 

Instead, it keeps me company. It holds my hand and squeezes tight when I begin to forget. I am not allowed to forget.  I will not forget. Forgetting means the absence of sorrow; forgetting means going numb. Never relief. Never joy.

So I keep myself chained and I whisper,

Stay

because how else can I write.