Little Death

That pain no one sees. An invisible emergency, without medication. No one notices the death before them. And so they stoke the fires.
It burns, that ball of pain. Sometimes so hard that it releases flares into the world. The visible tip. The end of an internal reaction that feels so all consuming and powerful, the result unfinished and limp. The rage of motivation. An engine of raw splutterings that leaves a thin vein of gold amidst its blinding smoke. If only you could drill down deep enough to see.
Sometimes it goes out. Then there’s just the pain. The choker. The grinder of madness. The visceral mincer. Hurting so hard. Too hard. The only hope is that it will light itself again. And that hope has the last of life’s consequences at stake.
Everyone needs a little death sometimes. To fail. To fear. To be killed and left. Unbloody and tired. Knotted and weak. Humiliated. Ashamed. Abandoned. Utterly naked with truth. Waiting, starving, as the longing seethes and begs. Grappling at the feet of courage’s own death, before there is nothing left. Before it’s worn out and too rotten to care. Before the skin can rip enough to tear through the thick endless time while the dust settles a new layer and the ashes begin to shift, ready for the next blinding spark. Until then…
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