Eyes can speak louder than air coming out of our lips

I told my father once,

Why have we become distant?

He hugged me and kissed my forehead,

Then he looked at me and smiled.

That simple gesture held more meaning than any words of reassurance.

“Hello darkness my old friend..” Hello depression. Hello stress.

I thought visiting their graves was enough,

Exchanging thoughts and breathing the same air, for a while.

Then leaving for a more hopeful destination.

But my visits have been more frequent recently,

I thought I’d stop coming a long time ago.

And this weekend, I found an invitation as clear as daylight.

I should have never showed up.

But here I am.

Facing them, drawn to them, again.

Feeding on my weak heart.

Telling me to dig them up from the ground.

Promising me what I couldn’t achieve yet, alone.

Promising me again, that I needed them.

And I’m tempted to give in.

But the last time I did that, it didn’t turn out well.

And the recovery was painful.

So I stand there, silently crying,

Waiting,

Searching for the strength within me

To pull me away from that cemetery

To get over the dead.

To make peace with my living self.

I stand there trembling.

Afraid to let go.

Afraid to be alone.

How many do I need to smoke to burn…?

Chain-smoking.

A new hobby, a habit.

How many do I need to smoke to burn my lungs?

How black are my lungs now?

Are they black as my soul?

Stained by all of the sins I’ve done and will do?

How will I describe them if I ever dissect myself?

Black as charcoal?

Black as midnight with a few popping stars that faintly shine, indicating some kind of existing hope?

How many do I need to smoke to destroy my lungs, so it can shut-down my heart?

Why do I need to indirectly damage my heart?

Why don’t I just get a knife and stab it already and get it over with?

Why all of this dramatic slow suicide?

Ah, yes.

Forgive me, I seem to have forgotten.

I don’t want them to directly look and know that the problem lies in my heart.

I don’t want them to find the name carved within that bloody muscle.

I don’t want them to blame you.

I don’t want them to find out about all this love that I am saving for you.

I don’t want them to find the painful sufferings and point their fingers at you.

I don’t want you to know that these are my true emotions towards you.

I don’t want my strong self to be crushed by this weakly that I am now.

I want the love I have in this beating muscle of mine to be hidden from prying eyes, including you.

I want to burn it along with my soul and leave no trace of it in this cruel world.

So tell me,

How many do I need to smoke to burn my existence from history?