Break

Everything is heavy:

The head, the heart, the body, the soul-- if it's still there.

On the brink of nuclear meltdown,

somewhere, there's a crack that can't be found or fixed.

All that can be done is to sit, wait, hope for the best.

But it's not a nuclear reactor melting,

it's you.

Hugging your knees in the middle of the night,

trying to swallow sobs as everything grips you,

all at once, all too quickly.

The wind is warm, and yet,

you feel like your heart is pumping icicles

into the freezing rivers that are your veins.

There are voices in your head,

telling you it's alright,

everything's fine.

But there are mobs in there,too.

Screaming profanities, infidelities,

injustices, and flaws.

You hear them above all else.

Barely breathing as you try to not drown in your own tears,

as you struggle for a breath,

the staggered kind,

when it feels like your lungs are racing to catch something,

anything, to fill them, to help them move.

Your heart is beating in a staccato beat,

you can barely tell when one beat ends

and another begins.

But there you sit,

knees to your chest, 

tears streaming down your face,

choking back sob after sob,

as you wage war against yourself.

There you sit,

a hollow shell,

an unrecognizable human.

Because the last time you really,

truly looked,

you were still alive.

Drums and Blood

The drumbeat sounds like bullets fired from a gun held by someone who should never have it. 
It sounds like disappointment and regret, and all your childhood fears of never being perfect.
They pierce through you, and you feel the blood flow, but not from the bullet wounds in your head. 
The stream of red flows down your arm, and you watch as rivulets of your life source flows from the gash you've made on your arm and onto the purple bed sheet, making black dots in the process.
You watch in morbid fascination as you take your switch blade, and run it lightly across your arm again, watching the line turn white, then pink, and then finally red, and blood spurts from the wound like an underground spring.
The droplets of black turn into a puddle, and you know this will stain.
You ask yourself why you've done this. It's simple.
You felt like there was too much blood in your veins, pumping through your brain.
You could hear the whoosh and slush of it as it rushed through your skull, it made too much noise. 
It sounded too much like the world outside.
The red river has gotten thicker but flows slower now, more languidly, and you stare at it as your head finally lightens, and realize you need to sleep.
You don't know if the drumbeats will be able to wake you up this time.