everyone has a breaking point.

Giulia De Angelis
My tears don't matter and the pains are ignored by their cruel desires to take every piece of my exposed flesh, taking over my intimacy, forcing the heavy and hard bodies against the already sensitive skin.
I stop fighting, I stop trying, wishing the water would carry away every one of my pains through the kiss of death from which I am plucked once more, clouding everything.
I'm taken with the past of contagious shadows that burn and blinded by fierce anger and biting hurt, a dark and empty path I've always walked and at some point I believed I was free. But how does one get rid of what makes them a person?
How is it possible to get rid of everything that marks you as deeply as scars on the body, marks on the mind destroying each of the sensory cells that are said to capture the sign of happiness.
Happiness no longer exists, if it ever existed, when pain takes over your memories, every good feeling is erased by the blurred vision of a sore mind, too tired to try to recover one more day, to try to survive another day. a painful breath in the midst of an emptiness that no one is able to extricate from.
Whether a drug is legalized or not, no one can help fight against one's own sick mind, against the pains slicing through the skull with suicidal thoughts, the guilt for life, for choices and especially for unrepairable mistakes, inevitable mistakes that today torment each one of us. distorted thoughts merging into a growing guilt.
Guilt for being, for living, for still trying and when nothing makes sense, food becomes bitter, tasteless and no act of pleasure is able to remove the emptiness from the bottom of the mind.
The mirror condemns what other people are not able to see, the madness expressed in the darkness of the eyes trapped in a corrupted soul awakening the worst desires adhering to madness as a painful part because only pain can ease the pain of emptiness. Some would say it's a way of asking for help, but how could it be when you don't want to be saved.
The idea of suffering in hell is more pleasant than imagining yourself waking up one more day, correcting your thoughts to make something positive without having a shred of gratitude for the day.
Give thanks for the pain?
Give thanks for feeling?
How do you say thank you for something that hurts so much?
To live and endure another day just for being completely dependent on me, for the responsibility of taking care of another life even if the burden is destructive, even feeling my heart sink with each beat. chronology of eye sockets aching to keep open and the painful desire to embrace the darkness between the revulsion of dirty skin.
I wished and wished and yearned for years to be like everyone else, to be blessed with the gift of being part of the family, to be someone for family members but the world is not kind and it is not fair.
Those who say they love us are the first to throw stones, the first to point the blades to cut the throat and the first to offer the rope to hang themselves in those moments the gift of childhood ignorance lights up in the mind like a lamp in the dark by the I wish to forget each year.
Inside my corrupted mind there are no memories of joy, only pain, sadness, emptiness. The memories of the first teeth coming in, the first words spoken are like a blur and now I'm staring into space looking for any excuse to end it.
Hands shaking and eyes dry, there are no more tears to shed with cowardice, cowardice to live, cowardice to die...
The stomach turns for the thousandth time in the day mixing with the blood running at a sickening speed through the veins forcing the heart muscles to work doubled and the doctors say: don't stress, it's bad for your health.
Maybe I should throw everything in the air and drag myself along the ground in search of the first precipice to fall, preferably the biggest one to have a challenging view and who knows how to regret kissing death with so much desire and hunger. fall in love with the devil?
Love meets death and the mind longs for the pain that only it can cause.
It transforms the shudder into desire, the wars around are just glimpses ignored if they don't bring death and right here is my final downfall. To love with every existing cell in the core the idea of embracing death, to love with such depth the darkness drawn by insane desires even under the pain.
And here lying, injured and completely shattered, I realized another hard truth: I am as much his as the blood that runs through my veins is stained and only he runs through each dark part crying out for release.
He's everything I've silently prayed for, he's the answer to my emptiness, he's the best drug for my corrupted system.
Two patients, two crazy people lost when discovering that voids are completed, whether in madness, in love, in lies or in pain.
Every tear shed loses its meaning if he is not the cause of them and that's how it becomes a disease, an obsession, a longing greater than pain than life itself.
Maybe it's crazy, but I prefer to believe that my troubled mind has finally found something to hold on to and fight for, even at the cost of what little sanity I have left.
The gleam of white smile permeated by fury conquering every crooked part already subjugated for so many years rebelling to score and scream, he's mine.
And even with the responsibility for another life hitting my face every minute, I took a breath of air clearing my mind, for the simple reason that I am incapable, I am incapable of betraying him like that.
Completely unable to accept trading every crumb of the last fifteen years for the man who holds my thoughts.
The feeling of fear no longer exists, at least not for myself, only for her. To save her from a cruel life like the one I had and still have.
He's not a good man and I saw it, felt it down to my soul when his pupils dilated with hate, when his response to my lie was a way of causing pain just to prove his point.
At the same time, I feel that finally here, lying on this floor in the midst of the blood and tears, which are mixed with the vomit and their semen, all I can think about is how their deaths could fulfill a fantasy.
And the only one capable of making it real is the one I've denied the opportunity of truth in every way, what's the point?
I was forced to cross the hot lavas of hell being stained by the ashes of my sins and the rottenness that became my life.
I raised my body silently nodding to the orders I couldn't deny at the moment, parading around the house with humiliation marked on my skin, mind, soul and a single desire to scream for help to the only one who showed pleasure in that abyss, the devil himself. and even though conscience screamed about regret I made the most unlikely decision for the prude I was raised to be.
I want the Devil, I want the King of Hell and I'll pray he takes me with his Persephone.
So the moment I walk into the bathroom with my cell phone in my hands locking the door like the traitor that I am, I just place the device against my hands saying a silent prayer.
Take me, accept me, touch me, bring me back to life, I look at the hours on my cell phone realizing that I spent an entire afternoon and night being mistreated, punished just for being me, for having my beauty condemned, for trying to a way with which I tried everyone, with the dirty body of your orgasms, my blood and my pain.
The stains remembering each moment on the wooden table, on the coffee table I open the lid of the toilet without having anything left to vomit, I lift the body looking at the face in the mirror at the pieces left by them and the trail of vomit marked in the dirt .
Meanwhile, conscience finally knocks on my door with trembling fingers digit hastily:
*You're right, you always have been. I need you, Giacomo*