Breaking Point

What is the breaking point?

Is it when your internal self snaps?

Is it when you finally let loose and just scream and scream and scream and shout out all of your secrets that have bent you backward on yourself as you tried to hold them inside?

Is it when you die?

My eyes focus on the knife she's using to cut the vegetables for dinner. Her lips move, but I hear not a sound uttered from her vocal chords.

Anna.

She says my name.

My eyes meet her blue orbs full of unanswered questions and…

Desperation?

She wants me to talk to her. She wants me to tell her what's wrong with me, why I am a broken cog in society's machine. She's like the mechanic who fixed our car two days ago. Calculating. What part of me can she fix?

I want to tell her that there's no use in fixing me because the machine will run without me. If I am but a blip in the universe why then do people try so hard to fix me? I like being broken. It's safe here in my internal shade of blackness. A part of me wants to tell her how I feel. I take a deep breath, and I release it. The words stick in my throat. How would she know? The blade of the knife comes down over the carrot, chopping off little carrot heads.

I want to tell her everything, explain why I am all wrong, but again I lie.

Fine.

I am not fine.

Say it anyway.

Lie.

How many lies have I told now?

It seems life is but a lie.

So I retreat inside myself. The blackness is a holy sanctuary where the demons in my closet can't get me, where the light can't blind me. All I hear is the sound of silence eating away my skin, breaking off pieces of me, and I love it. Oh yes. I want more. I want to feel this numbness.

I am the sound of silence.

Say it again.

Silence.

Don't touch me. I can't feel. Just go.

And the knife chops again ringing in my ears.

There's a part of me that contemplates death. A video plays in my head. Easy escape. Those are the words. Easy escape. Is it braver to throw myself off a bridge, or is it that being cowardly?

So I stay hidden inside, because these thoughts haunt me, they tickle under my skin the wrong way.

What is the breaking point?

I walk away. Ignore the worried stare, the questions. My throat aches with words unspoken. My heart feels heavy with this baggage I cannot share.

Is the breaking point when you die?

Because I am still alive…

…and I am broken.

A/N: This is a lot more depressing than what I usually write, but I've been playing with some of my own emotions lately and I've been reading a lot of Ellen Hopkins. Plus this is sort of for a 100 deviation challenge thing on the website DeviantArt (there's a link to my site on my profile) and since I can't draw I decided to write instead. So it sort of sucks. It was really my first time writing something this depressing. I hope everyone enjoys!