OrbitingReality

They say suicide is a choice. A single decision, made in a moment. But what if it’s not? What if it’s the slow, crushing inevitability that follows you in the quiet hours, when the light seems too much to bear?

They don’t tell you how it feels when every second drips like poison into your veins, when the weight of being alive is too much to carry, when your body feels like a prison and your thoughts like the bars. They don’t tell you that.

Do you want to know the truth? It’s not about wanting to die. It’s about wanting the pain to end. It’s about waking up every morning and feeling the suffocating silence inside you, and wishing you could tear it out. But you can’t.

It’s not a joke. It’s not dramatic. It’s the hollow ache of a mind that’s been hollowed out so long it doesn’t remember what it’s like to feel whole.

They say "reach out"— but what do you say when the words are dead in your throat? When you’ve screamed for help so many times, your voice has withered into nothing? When the world tells you to fight, but fighting is like beating your head against a wall that’s never going to crack? So you stop fighting. You stop screaming. You stop hoping.

You let the dark swallow you, because it feels more like home than anything else ever has.

They think it’s weakness. They don’t know the exhaustion it takes to pretend you’re not already gone. To wear the mask that’s too tight, that makes your face ache with the weight of your own lies. They think it’s attention-seeking. They think it’s a cry for help. But they don’t understand. They never will.

And then, the silence. The nothing. The release.

You don’t scream, because you’ve already screamed and no one heard you. So you vanish. You slip into nothing, like a shadow that was never really there. And maybe, just maybe, someone will find your absence so sickening, they’ll feel it. Just for a second. Like a cold, twisted dream. A nightmare they can’t shake.

But that’s the trick, isn’t it? That’s the cruelty. They won’t remember. They won’t remember you. They’ll forget your name before your body even cools. You’ll be nothing to them— just another casualty in the ugly game of life.

there’s a war beneath my skin— not seen, not heard, only felt in the hollow ache of every restless night.

the needles of anxiety prick, sharp and endless, while depression drags me into pits without bottom.

i wear my scars like armor, but they don’t protect— they remind me of battles fought in silence, in dark corners where no one visits.

sometimes, i want to rip my own skin to feel something real, to drown the chaos with pain i can control.

but it’s not just the cutting— it’s the constant tug of rituals, the endless need to fix what isn’t broken, the crushing perfectionism that crushes me whole.

this isn’t a choice. this is survival, a twisted language my mind learned too well.

my mind is a broken metronome, tick—tick—tick—grind—snap— a jagged pulse that never finds the beat.

i step, again and again, left, right, left, right, a pattern etched in anxiety’s stone, a dance i can’t refuse.

breathing is a battlefield, inhale—hold—exhale—repeat, or else the walls close in, a suffocating cage made of invisible chains.

they call it obsession, but it’s a war with myself, fighting shadows i can’t catch, trapped in loops with no escape.

every step wrong, every breath off, is a crack in my sanity— a scream muffled beneath forced smiles, a storm that rages in silence.

they say it’s a choice— like flipping a coin, like closing a door.

but it’s not. it’s the slow decay of a city forgotten by time, cracks widening in the walls of your mind, each breath a shatter you swallow like poison.

there is no moment— just the endless dragging of bones through invisible mud, a rusted cage tightening around your ribs.

you learn to smile through numbness, to dance with shadows that whisper in languages no one speaks. they think you’re broken, but you’re just folding into yourself to survive the collapse.

when your thoughts bleed, no one hears the drip, drip, drip— just the echo of silence and the weight of nothing pressing you flat.

they tell you to fight, but you’re not a warrior. you’re a ghost trying to breathe in a world that forgets to look beneath the skin.

you don’t want to vanish. you want to dissolve slowly, like fog in dawn— quiet, unnoticed, but real.

and maybe that’s the cruelest truth— to be invisible in pain, to scream in colorless noise, to break so thoroughly that even your reflection starts to forget your name.

i’m not the fun one. i'm the one who leaves the room when the noise starts to feel like drowning.

they think i’m cold but really, i’ve just run out of places to burn.

i orbit reality like a satellite too scared to crash but too tired to keep spinning.

there’s no punchline in my silence. no secret smile behind my stillness. i'm not being dramatic. i’m being honest.

some nights, i hurt myself just to prove i still belong in this body.

and still— i make space for everyone else's storms while choking on my own rain.

you are a quiet kind of beautiful— not the loud, look-at-me glow, but the type that stuns in silence. like a full moon in an empty sky that doesn't ask for eyes but still steals them all.

i would’ve taken your hand like it was the last map to something soft. i would've called it a date, but really, i just wanted to exist near where you feel safe.

but i know. i’m not the fire you’d freeze for. i’m the echo you never meant to hear.

still, i try. i smile with cracked glass lungs, offer you laughter as a peace treaty for my own war.

they speak of horror with a grin stitched too wide, retelling tragedy like it’s a bedtime story no one should’ve heard.

laughter fills the space where silence might drown them, a nervous reflex, not disrespect— just survival in disguise.

their words dance on graves, not to mock the dead, but to keep the shadows from dragging them under.

people call it twisted. cold. wrong.

if the train comes, I hope it hesitates— just long enough for the wind to whisper, "you don't really want to go."

not like this. not beneath the weight of a world that never listened, not with your last breath still full of things unsaid.

they called you strong because you smiled while bleeding quietly— but this isn’t weakness. this is the storm you’ve carried alone.

if the train comes, let it pass. not because you’re fine, but because you still deserve to scream, to write, to breathe, to find a crack of light in all this ruin.

you are not too much. you are not too late. you are a story still unfolding.

Enjoying the pain I feel.

Guilt boils-

I stand in the rain to cool it down.

I fall, out of regret,

I take the knife —

a cold whisper in my hand,

holding still against the storm inside.

Regret pools like ink,

tears carve silent rivers down my skin.

I cut —

deep enough to bleed secrets,

to whisper sorrys

for every accusation,

for everyone who knew me,

and those I never dared to tell.

Then I jump —

just once,

into the void

where silence swallows the pain,

No one knew I held your name

like a secret flame-

quiet, flickering,

shielded from the wind.

They'll forget you.

They'll pass your photo

like a shadow on the wall,

not knowing I still whisper

to the silence where you used to be.

You didn't vanish-

you sank softly

into the folds of my memory,

stitched into pages

I never dared to share.

I wasn't loud with my love,

but it was real.

And if no one else remembers you,

I still do.

They said the sky stayed still that day,

but I swear I saw it flinch- as if the clouds themselves had paused

to hold their breath, then slipped.

No answers came, just silence fell where laughter used to stay.

A name still echoing in rooms you quietly walked away.

Was it the wind that took you fast, or something darker, slow?

The truth, they say, is lost in fog- but I still need to know.

Yet maybe knowing wouldn't help,

and questions wouldn't mend the ache that hums inside my chest each time I call you "friend."

So now I speak into the dark,

as if the stars might hear- not asking why,

or where you went, just letting you be near.

for those who fear the crowd and the echo of their own name

they stare

like gods without mercy,

eyes glass-blown and gleaming

with questions I can't answer.

their laughter-

a pack of matches striking skin,

each syllable

a fire I pretend doesn't burn.

I walk among the stars,

like a shadow missing its body,

untouchable

because I never let them touch.

their breath is poison.

their presence,

a scream stitched into silence.

I fold myself

into corners no one looks at.

it's not loneliness if it's safer.

it's not hate if it's fear. but no one tells that to the ones who love mirrors and make monsters