As if my suffering has a taste or sound. This presence that haunts my days and appears in the center, or the end. Fragrant wafts of unknown, the drudge of lethargy, and the clouded thrum of mind. We hold hands all day, teetering on the edge of the whole until I flip towards one or the other. My suffering teaches me, guides the outline of the story until I understand. Its grace is flawless, capturing the essence of being, pushing me into the flames of purity. I can’t express my love and hate for hell, when the dim light cannot penetrate the walls. These wounds with a salve, pushed deeper and deepest until they fill my entity to the brim. I can’t stop being grateful for the iron taste of blood and the inner battles that rage while my external sits quietly or the sweat that drips from my forehead when I let it out. I overcome and somehow enjoy the falling, that the holes in my spirit are filled with liquid crystal, all my energy drained only to pool and regenerate once more.