Each day I feel myself break just a little more. It comes in low waves, like the tide. Each retreating wave leaves a new crack, a new feeling of worthlessness. There’s a moral leash keeping eternal peace just out of reach. I long for the highs, of which I hear others tell, but the sea remains content with gently rolling in and then pulling away. I’ve shed an ocean of tears. My skin, tattooed with painful reminders of my failings. Rest remains just out of my reach, but I stretch a little more. The tide pulls in just a bit farther and my desperate hands seek the sweet release of death upon the sand. Not promoting anything other than my own survival.
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