Why am I Counting?

Why am I counting?,
like it is going to make a difference,
or feel any better,
I could write a letter,
but it’d go nowhere,
posted into a drawer lost for eternity,

but I am not a teenager,
that’s not how you deal with it anymore,

you talk out loud,
to yourself,
to see if it helps,
confirming in coversation,
through dialogue,
that right now,
feels a bit like hell,

the pain pangs ponderously,
only offering me answers in hurt,
in rage,
in fallen tears,
each one a memory,
a vital part of the story,
particularly making itself known,
reread and held onto with vigor,
all this anger,
is just the trigger,
from which everything happens,
by stuffing it in a heart shaped box,

it exploded,
and now you’ve overloaded everything,

I’m counting the days,
like I’ve survived a trauma,
the further I get from it,
the further I become back to normal,

the tears have done me in,
in and violently rattled about,
all at once,
and now everything is still,

silence can haunting,
or perhaps we’re just haunted by ourselves,

I feel as if I’m counting the days,
till I get out my cell,

out of myself,
and I fear,
I fear it all,

why do we count the days at all?


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