Comfortable

I feel too comfortable in my own pain.
The hurt that brings me down and buries me.
The pain that bruises me.
The pain that tears into me and takes what I have to give, yet leaves behind just enough for my heart to keep pumping.
The pain that tells you love is impossible and death is inevitable.
The pain that causes discomfort in my mind when I brush the surface of happiness; yet when happiness is achieved, I live in the reality that it’s temporary.
The pain that causes good memories to turn to fading dreams and justifies the bad habits of today.
The pain that suddenly puts you at ease among a reoccurring nightmare fueled by substance and your own hand.
The pain that allow these habits to keep you stuck in place, feeding you the peace between anger, sorrow, and regret.