It stings. It feels like I have seven hundred bees injecting their poison into each one of my veins, repeatedly. Like if a Mack truck decided to run over my knees, over and over again. It hurts like nothing I've experienced in a very long time.
It burns. It feels like I'm slowly walking along the hallways of a burning house, feeling the flames piercing my skin, excruciatingly tearing off my face. Feeling my lungs get inundated with that deadly smoke. Feels like it won't stop.
It insists. Just when I think it'll get a little better, it makes me remember, and it hits me harder than before. It reminds me that it can be stronger than me. It convinces me that it's bigger than me. That I can't possibly get rid of it. That it'll do with me whatever it wants.
It is here. It will not go away any time soon. It will make its house in the edge of one of my ribs, and just tighten, and strain, and break me, and be as painful as it can be. It will have no mercy of me. It'll laugh straight at my face whenever I think I can forget it.
It's trapped. It has found a home in my soul and taken over. And it will last forever. Not with the same strength always, but it will frequently show up to flaunt its power. It'll never really leave. It's a part of me now. And I will never know another pain comparable to this, ever.
It will make me stronger. Just like everything else. Yet I will be weak for a long time. Because I became a slave to this twisted dream. But it was my dream. It will never be a nightmare, because it's too beautiful to be called that.
It makes me weak. And it'll make me strong. It changed me, and I will never be the same. It passed the test of time, but not the test of circumstance. It is mine, but I'll never have it. It's what I'm made of, but I'll never embrace it. It's what I want, but not what I need.
It will not be resolved, because it's not a problem. It will not be measured, because I could never show it in full effect. It will never spread its wings... Because it never learned to fly.
It hurts, but it's mine, right? I can't die of this, correct? A body in pain can still live, can't it? A burned soul will still find it's place in this sick world, won't it?
This sweet, gentle poison of seven hundred bees traveling through me... It can't possibly kill me...
... Can it?