I think I broke last night,
But breaking isn’t something I’m new to.
I’ve been broken for a while,
Hiding away.

My bedroom hides the dead inside.
It’s hiding me.
Hiding what’s left.

I’ve become a shell of myself,
I’ve become exactly what I didn’t want to be.
I want to get better,
I do.
It’s on me to get better,
I know.
But I don’t know how.

Getting better involves getting out of bed.
I can’t.
I can’t get out of bed, and yet I’m not getting any sleep.
So I stay up late.
I don’t want to sleep because I don’t want to wake.
Because waking up can hurt more than dying.

Waking up involves hearing the dark thoughts.
They ring in my ears like old church bells,
reminding myself of who I am,
and who I am not.

The days when I force myself to get up,
all I can do is exist.
All I can do is breathe.
And on those days, it has to be enough.
I just want it to be enough.

Here I am telling personal war stories about the monsters inside.
After a while the monsters start to feel like perfect company,
but they never stop screaming.
And I never stop listening.
I get so tired of the voice,
but what if the voice is right?

But what if it’s just a voice in the dark.
But in the dark it’s just the two of us.
The voices don’t stop in the dark.
The darkness is all I’ve got.
So I’m stuck here,
destined to exist here,
in the place I’ve always known.

I miss the days when there wasn’t a darkness.
When I had some light by my side.
It used to mean the world to me,
but now I’m floating in the empty.
Searching for something to keep me going,
searching for anything to give me life outside of what I lost,
and all I’ve lost is myself.

These things break me.
These thoughts wear me down over time.
When does it end?
How do I make it stop?

But until I figure it out,
more fake smiles,
more days of forcing myself out of bed.
Hoping that just breathing can be enough,
more days of these little victories.
Signs that I’m getting better.
More saying “I’m fine.”
Until I really am.