Haven’t quite picked out a title for this.
Here we go again. I can feel it , that slow, sick pull in my chest, like gravity dragging me back toward the same old darkness I swore I’d never touch again. It starts quiet, always does. Just a whisper: one more time won’t hurt. But I know the truth. It’s never just one more time. It’s the start of the unraveling , the part where I start losing myself all over again.
I can already see the pattern playing out like a movie I’ve watched a hundred times. I’ll start to withdraw, ghost everyone who gives a damn. Texts unanswered. Calls ignored. Lies on top of lies easy at first, almost automatic. “I’m fine.” “Just tired.” “Busy, that’s all.” And the people who love me will start to look at me the way they always do when they know something’s off like they’re afraid to say it out loud, afraid to watch me slip away again.
Then comes the deception, the manipulation. The way I’ll twist the truth until even I start believing it. I’ll tell myself it’s stress, it’s loneliness, it’s trauma, it’s anything but the truth. I’ll start blaming the world, the people who “don’t understand,” the ones who “gave up too soon.” But deep down, I’ll know — I am the problem. I’m the storm that never seems to pass.
The anger always follows. At myself, mostly. For being so goddamn weak. For letting this thing own me over and over again. For wanting it even when I know it’s killing me. I’ll look in the mirror and see a stranger hollow eyes, fake smile, just a body wearing my name.
And then the sadness. The kind that doesn’t cry, doesn’t scream it just sits there, heavy and silent, until it crushes you. That deep, suffocating ache that whispers, maybe this time, you won’t make it back. Maybe this time, you’ll sink so far that the surface becomes a memory.
But then there’s the smallest flicker — that bitter, fragile piece of hope that refuses to die no matter how much I try to smother it. The part of me that still wants to believe tomorrow could be different. That maybe if I write it down, if I rip the poison out of my head and pour it onto the page, I can make it through one more night.
I hate this cycle. I hate that I know it so well I could map it out blindfolded. I hate that part of me still craves the chaos more than the calm. But maybe — just maybe — writing this down means I’m still fighting. That I haven’t given up yet.
Because right now, that’s all I’ve got — this broken, angry, bleeding honesty. And maybe if I can survive tonight, maybe if I can just hold on a little longer… tomorrow might hurt a little less
I can already see the pattern playing out like a movie I’ve watched a hundred times. I’ll start to withdraw, ghost everyone who gives a damn. Texts unanswered. Calls ignored. Lies on top of lies easy at first, almost automatic. “I’m fine.” “Just tired.” “Busy, that’s all.” And the people who love me will start to look at me the way they always do when they know something’s off like they’re afraid to say it out loud, afraid to watch me slip away again.
Then comes the deception, the manipulation. The way I’ll twist the truth until even I start believing it. I’ll tell myself it’s stress, it’s loneliness, it’s trauma, it’s anything but the truth. I’ll start blaming the world, the people who “don’t understand,” the ones who “gave up too soon.” But deep down, I’ll know — I am the problem. I’m the storm that never seems to pass.
The anger always follows. At myself, mostly. For being so goddamn weak. For letting this thing own me over and over again. For wanting it even when I know it’s killing me. I’ll look in the mirror and see a stranger hollow eyes, fake smile, just a body wearing my name.
And then the sadness. The kind that doesn’t cry, doesn’t scream it just sits there, heavy and silent, until it crushes you. That deep, suffocating ache that whispers, maybe this time, you won’t make it back. Maybe this time, you’ll sink so far that the surface becomes a memory.
But then there’s the smallest flicker — that bitter, fragile piece of hope that refuses to die no matter how much I try to smother it. The part of me that still wants to believe tomorrow could be different. That maybe if I write it down, if I rip the poison out of my head and pour it onto the page, I can make it through one more night.
I hate this cycle. I hate that I know it so well I could map it out blindfolded. I hate that part of me still craves the chaos more than the calm. But maybe — just maybe — writing this down means I’m still fighting. That I haven’t given up yet.
Because right now, that’s all I’ve got — this broken, angry, bleeding honesty. And maybe if I can survive tonight, maybe if I can just hold on a little longer… tomorrow might hurt a little less
22-25, F
