Broken shards

I wonder how it feels like to be an inanimate object. To just sit there and not have to care about living nor feeling stupid emotions that keep you up at night. Porcelain dolls are ethereal and free from having to deal with chaotic thoughts. It would be a shame to break a porcelain doll. Pieces of broken parts scattered on the floor. Putting it together would be no use, the tragedy of the event remains evident on the once untouched melody.

We are all broken somewhere inside. Having someone to love you despite your scars would be the best. I love it. I love that. But only if that person did not leave a scratch. I wonder now, would fixing the shattered part stop the demons from creeping in or would it just temporarily heal my pain?

Almost like a porcelain doll, the cold settles in my skin. Hide the unsettling thoughts behind my sweet lovely smile. Maybe, if I fixed myself to be strong enough to keep my demons at bay--maybe I wouldn't feel so much like a porcelain doll. But how does one fix themselves? How does one shut the clamor of inferno of their thoughts at 1am when no matter what you do, everything reminds you of him and the bits of yesterday spiralling like a broken record played on repeat in a broken player at an untimely time when you should be asleep.

I'd rather be a porcelain doll.

Constant, stable, lifeless, vulnerable but at least far from the self-destructive thoughts that make me blue. The moon looks very pretty tonight but the paranoia of my mind screams amidst the lonely night.