Sadness is like an old friend

_{Photo retrieved from Pixabay}

_{(items and whatnots)}

It's the sadness that stays without a notice that weakens me the most. The one that shows up more often than the shy solar flares. The one that just appears in the middle of the day, in the middle of the night, and basically, in the middle of everything. I hate it. It barely spare me peacefulness. It just arrives, as though it already memorized every inch of me, like it already merged with me, in me. It just appears. Like a quick downpour of rain in my fade-away roof; abrupt and never lasts, but always leaves liquids forming on my toenails.

And oh, those damn wicked nights. It doesn't give a warning, not even a single tap in my consciousness. Perhaps my frail fingers, locked up and chained, restrained me of painting my perplexing hues in a sheet despite it disappearing, k!lling my poems despite it being already dead, kissing me senseless despite me being already numb.
It's the sadness that never, ever leaves that I hate the most as it always send me to an overdrive with my poetry. 'Cause honestly, I don't want to ever write another page of my silent nights being gruesome without a sound. I don't want to write another episode of my unknown battlecries in my warfare with sadness. I don't want to ever read a book written by my horrors.
The feeling of fighting back with my inner demons is exhausting and is as deadly as a sharpened katana. One wrong move, and I'll be enduring a destruction that never heals, maybe not, until I end myself.

But will I ever be ready to end me? I will never ever know, and I'm not sure if I want to know.

---