What’s the point in trying?
What’s the point of living life in fear?
What’s the point of suffering?
I don’t have the answers,
I don’t have the time,
I don’t have the mental stability.
The thought of giving up seems nice.
The thought of escaping all this hurt,
Escaping all this dreadfulness,
All this excruciating pain...
The thought of saving him from being known,
In a way that’s less than ideal...
I already hated myself,
I really actually do.
I tell myself what I am,
Horrible, disgusting, and ugly,
But even if I punish myself,
It’s not enough for others.
Phone calls,
Messages,
Voicemails,
Conversations,
Nothing will ever be the same again.
If I were to go,
It still wouldn’t change,
The talk would still be the same,
But what keeps me thinking about leaving,
Is how much quieter it would be,
In mind, my heart, and my soul.