Unspoken Things

 

Millions of unspoken things clung to her lungs, begging for release, but she held her breath to silence them.

As she lay in the thick air of a 3 AM bedroom, the tacky black in control of her chest prevented her from breathing with ease—prevented sleep—while millions of unspoken things wormed through her head…under her skin…and deep into the soil of a dishonest heart.

Millions of unspoken things needed to come out. Again.

She shuffled from the bed to her dresser where she hid the journal that contained her genuine self. Moonlight cut through the black window sheers as if driven to illuminate her face in the mirror. Her heart squeezed at the sight of her eyes, which were too old for someone so young, so she raised a delicate fingertip to soothe the aged reflection. But instead of solace, pain greeted her. The glass had shattered in its frame and cut her finger.

She retracted her hand to find blood streaming from her fingertip. Too much blood.

Horrified, she looked up at the broken glass and found that her fragmented image was now a hundred jagged shapes of reflected rainbows. But the blood was escaping too fast; she looked down as it swirled around her, creating a red-black storm cloud that tugged at the millions of things she choked back.

Tears slid from her eyes as if seeking the rainbows, but the rainbows were gone.

Every jagged piece was black. A hundred disfigured mirrors reflected nothing. All evidence of life—of the tacky black self she’d shown the world—had disappeared.

She was dying.

But the storm…it told her to live.

So she wrenched her journal from its hiding place and ran from her untruths in search of strength to be the millions of unspoken things she’d lovingly penned on its golden pages.

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