The art of self-destruction

This is the art of self-destruction. You feel it slowly creeping in, flood spilling through the spaces your tightly shut door had failed to secure. You stayed silent; wishing the rain will go away while you lock yourself inside the claustrophobic walls, putting bolts and locks to every opening you can see even though you knew so very well that they were all wasted efforts because the darkness will always find a way in. And you watch the water crawl on the floor, taking its time to let itself be known, soaking the carpet wet until it could hold nothing more.

You saw it coming for you. Still, you denied the disaster as if you hadn't noticed its existence, you continue to be normal and held your breath while ignoring the rising liquid. You made yourself believe in warmth when everything else inside was cold—in every inch of your skin, through your tangled up veins and inside every chamber of your heart. This is the calm before the storm. You stayed unbothered by the demise engulfing you, reaching, welcoming the catastrophe as if you were its home.

But no matter how used to the pain you are, it will still hit your body with a shock, every muscle trembling, gasping for breath as you let yourself drown. Slowly, you become an aquarium of sad lullabies resonating through the universe until the stars become insomniacs abandoning sleep. The internal bleeding will start to overflow, invisible empty tears at first, rippling on the surface of serenity until they become waves of the raging sea. Funny, how something so trivial to someone could inflict a calamity to another.

These little things too small and unassuming to be recognized build-up like a downpour filling the gutters, flowing deep beneath the ocean no one knew was inside of you.

And sometimes, everything is just too much that you become the reason of your own shipwreck. Because it is hard to hold it all in alone that you just want to tear yourself apart.

Still, after the damage, you kept silent.