Every now and then I fall apart.

They say falling apart isn’t that hard.
It isn’t.
The actual breaking, fragmenting is easy. It’s the buildup that aches, the steady and spinning ascent to the crescendo,before the steep freefall. The dizzy, nauseating moments on the edge of the precipice.
The falling is effortless. Wind whistling through your ears,the feeling of weightlessness as you wonder how this didn’t happen sooner.
It’s the crashing onto the ground that hurts. Sudden, jarring. No air to cushion your fall. Just gravity taking its course and the cold, hard ground under your broken back, stones and loose gravel digging,digging into you.
Breathing is a task; what with the air all but forced out of your lungs on impact and your diaphragm all knotted and twisted in you and your emotions churning,stirring wildly in you, you’re a mess.
And it’s easy for people to tell you that it’s going to be all right, that you will be okay, that wounds will heal and time will make it all peachy. And you plaster a brave smile for them,nodding, nodding, keeping up that godawful and honestly exhausting facade. Waiting for the moment when it too,will crumble as spectacularly, taking its cue from you. Because right then, right there, in the time and space that you are, everything’s not okay. And it’s not going to be either,in any of the immediately foreseeable future. In some weird, roundabout way,you’ve come to terms with that. (As much as a person can with things like these)
And you don’t need empty reassurances or hopeful epithets. Because fractured and fragmented as you are, no kings or horses or men will ever put you back together again.



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