Literature
Inside colour.
When I cry.
Man, do I cry.
I'll be honest. I'm an ugly crier. Face all wet, with snot bubbles bursting everytime I sniff. Phlegm choking every breath I struggle to speak. Exhaling with such force that my lungs weaken, leaving minimal strength to grasp in air.
Almost to stutter profusely in repetition.
Like many others, I do it secretly, away from the public. Not in fear of the mess I become, but only to avoid more judgement.
Sometimes a man breaks.
Try not to kick him when he's down.
Because he will get back up. But no longer as a fighter.
Never again as a fighter.
So don't expect to see the same man.
While his mind battles to reinforce shivered walls with sticks and pebbles.
He is now fixated on having them higher and thicker. A structure no longer to serve as protection. Only to dampen the blows, for the next day. The next wave.
The 'I'm fine', is automated.
It's an effective attack that casts a distraction to allow him to keep building.
On his own.
For some, darkness
