This Is Only Hers

What is it that hangs over her head like a dark cloud? She waits for the storm to rage, knowing it is inevitable. Then, just as it always has, it begins. It starts as a soft rain; one that feels like it may subside. But she knows this is a foolish thought, it will only worsen. And with that, it does. It boils, running through her veins, pumping through her blood, clouding her vision, making her very soul scream a hellacious, yet reminiscent scream. One you can't hear, but if you listen, it will pierce through your body leave you crouching on the floor covering your ears, searching for salvation from this terror. If you pay attention, it will make you hurt as much as the horror behind the initial scream hurts. If you open your eyes, you will see the fear, open up your senses as a whole, you will breath in the toxic fumes and you will taste the ever-salty tears that never cease, yet never really begin. Open up more and the worst is yet to come. Open up completely and you will actually feel the sheer torture of a day in her mind. You will never find a way to open up to this though. To most this is a false image. This is a lie, this isn't a place that really exists and to you none of this makes sense. You will never enter this place, not because you aren't invited, but because you can't grasp this concept, just know that it exists, whether you believe it or not. Sometimes, even to her it doesn't exist. She has found a way to train the thoughts to hide, but they are smart, they find a way to leak back in. But to everyone else, her smiles are real, her laughter is genuine, and her contagious love for life isn't a well thought out play. You will never suspect that the inside is more than the opposite of the outside; you will never suspect the fire that rages inside. Nobody can understand it, not even her. Nobody can come inside and try to unravel the mystery, it is her private hell.