Tasteless

I leaned against the brown, chilly water pipes, water pouring through my mop of hair and carrying all the heat down, cascading off the various contours of my body.

Staring at the door, bathed in a warm, orange glow, with the white noise of gushing water and messy, wandering thoughts.

I’ve long since given up on telling anyone about the problem…

Those whom I did would give me a pitiful glance, with the deafening, ringing silence which I hate so, so much followed by a stammered “I-I don’t know.”

Which sucks because you want to know that they do know or just that they’re trying to know and are there to learn or something.

It’s a numbness, a wordless towel toss-in. It’s the idea that something is wrong, but the meds kick in and you’re deliriously happy until you realise that it’s still wrong and will always be. It’s the knowledge that the sun will rise tomorrow, but how it would set again as well.

It’s insanity, a dish with so much sugar and bitterness within that your tongue stops working: People keep telling you “No it’s fine you just have to taste the sweetness” or “it’s only a bit bitter, what’s wrong with you” despite how you keep telling them that you can taste fuck-all and you just want to throw the whole damn plate out because, for fuck’s sake, you’d rather fucking starve because you’re so sick of it.

(of course then you see other people’s plates which seem like just PLAIN salt sugar and bitter gourd, and you just settle to continue labouring through your meal without another complaint.)