When does a house stop being a home? When do people you thought loved you turn into passing strangers?
When does a cry of sadness turn to a tear, a choke?
Time is not a healer;Time tortures you
slowly, forcing you to think about your mistakes.
Or rather, theirs.
You see,
time and silence work hand
in hand, the
quiet drags out the pain like a
sharp knife,
slowly slicing through a hoarse throat.
Distractions are not for victims- they
are the product of discarded
hope,
an empty void longing to be filled.
The incandescent glow of the bathroom light, paired with the demanding darkness of the toilet bowl.
Why is an absent mind so much to ask for?
When does a house stop stop being a home? When do people you thought loved you turn into passing strangers?
When you open your eyes to the
reckless reality,
where the only distraction is
death.