nx.

i'd rather hit a button and have it all be over, head to the repair shop instead of a doctor's office. let them swap out these worn-out parts for newer, better ones.

it takes so much energy just to keep this whole broken system running, to pretend everything's fine when all i want to do is shut down.

maybe if i was just a machine, i wouldn't have this kind of mindset, wouldn't feel this constant ache, and maybe, just maybe, i'd actually like that better.

but then you couldn't see, and even though I wrote in braille, you still couldn't read what I wrote. or maybe you just didn't want to.

i tried telling you a story from my heart, but my voice shook and my words broke. then you couldn't hear, so the story didn't matter anymore. or maybe you just didn't want to listen.

I tried to guide you with touch, hoping something physical would help you understand, but you shut me out. you didn't know me, or maybe you weren't curious enough to find out.

It’s not a conscious choice to remain distant, but rather a deeply ingrained response, a protective mechanism that has become second nature.

The very idea of vulnerability feels like standing on the edge of a precipice, the ground uncertain beneath my feet.

This constant state of alert, this quiet anticipation of disappointment, breeds a profound sense of weariness, tinged with a frustration that borders on anger.

moving on is like dragging your bare feet through the snow, each step a fresh wound.

you bleed a path, a screaming line across the white, and you wonder if hiding it matters when the storm is coming to swallow everything.

you try to stomp out your tracks, to disappear, but they'll always see the blood, the desperation. they saw you leave, saw you choose this frozen hell, and they just stood there.

your ankles are numb, the cold a burning fist, and your toes are turning black, but you can't move. the thought of them, still there, maybe waiting. it tears you apart.

you want to go back.

what if they wanted to follow, but the blizzard stole their chance?

the snowflakes are falling, each one a cold kiss, erasing you, piece by piece. you wanted to run, to escape the past, but the grief, the fear, the ache of it all, it keeps you here.

you wanted to move on, but you didn't want to lose them.

you told yourself you were moving on.

you chose this.

the walls breathe, and the silence plays tricks, whispering a fractured song inside your head.

she's gentle and her voice sounds like a melody, but it's not real, the words take shape, a chorus of shadows.

the stillness she's performing, suffocating absence.

a cruel reminder of what's lost, making your heart pound in protest.

the isolation settles, a chilling embrace, a terror that grips the soul.

the loneliness bares it's teeth, a frozen wasteland within, a nightmare that leaves you shivering, a torment you can't escape.

it's a hollow echo, a desolate expanse, her torment you can't endure.

that's loneliness.

her whispers, the silence, the cold.

a pestering reminder of the space between, the things you lost, now festering, a raw wound.

i want to scratch my skin open,

taste the bones, my body's cage.

clutch my ribs, locate the heart's core.

to dig with my hands,

each motion spill blood.

to rip myself open,

to search for the root.

tormenting still,

the itch won't cease.

a fevered hell, a desperate plea,

but divergence is different, it's difficult and dull. despite that nobody sees it, it breathes only in the architecture of your own gaze. uninitiated asks, what is it you perceive?

it's not, it's not, it's not, it's not.

silence it is not.

i feel like a passing train,

everyone looks but nobody gets on.

the steel,

the rust,

the noise,

a heartbeat of leaving,

a lingering feeling.

I bear the weight,

but feel no anchor.

faces flash by,

the landscape unfolds.

the tracks ahead,

no time to stop,

only the ghost of what I couldn't hold.

a hollow ache,

cries and goodbyes.

but I am no better,

a visitor to be precise,

a bruised heart echoes in the bleeding chasm.

silence devours the unspoken words.