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On Anothers sorrow

There is little more pain I've known than the pity of a dear friend in your regard. A well wish affirming my fears more biting than any scornful comment could have been. I was reminded why I preferred the facade of intimidation over being an invisible creature of pitiable nature. Fearsome does not want for anything, fearsome does not ache at the absence of beauty. I ached deep in my chest for the bite of a blade, a proclivity I had since long escaped, just to alliviate the numbness of my lips from hyperventillating. I turned away from WIlliam Blake's verse opened before me. 

Think not, thou canst sigh a sigh 

And thy maker is not by.

Think not, thou canst weep a tear, 

And thy maker is not near

Snot nosed like the insolent child I felt like, I opened the altoid container. I beheld the little shrine, a last resort before surrenering my blood. 

"I know I'm not the type of person who's prayers are answered. I know I am not one pitied by the gods." My plight held the bemoanment of a little girl, like a song of innocence long lost. 

"I cry to you like a child because that's what I've been reduced to." I scarcely recognized my own voice through gasping sobs. 

"so I ask you as a child in pain, please let me be beautiful. So many people are. Why not me?" My ears blocked from the intenisty of my heaving, my senses muffled as I gazed teary eyed at the depiction of cupid embracing psyche flanked by an outreaching Sappho. I didn't know which was worse; the prospect that I sobbed alone, or that my misery and pitiable state might be percieved.

"please, I just want someone to love me.  I just want someone to understand me as i would them. No pity." I concluded my rambling petition with a sharp gaspong sob that wracked through me. A sense of quietness befell me. I can no longer differentiate between calm and axhaustion. I shut the shrine, too ocried to maintain the cadence of breath my crying had provoked. The numbness overtook me, as it often did. The protective balm of dissasociation clouding my faculties. But at least the pain was gone. The last stanza taunted me as I sat alone in the dark room. 

O! he gives to us his joy, 

That our grief he may destroy

Till our grief is fled and gone 

He doth sit by us and moan

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