#night script

and if there had been a choice, I would have chosen the blank page— no ink, no name, no story to tell; because nothing here has ever felt like enough to stay for, no hand worth holding, no small flame worth guarding; better the void than this constant ache of being unwanted in my own skin.

i stopped loving the things i once did, they don’t bring joy—just empty echoes, another part of me fading, nothing special, just quiet spaces where passion used to live.

right now, my body fights to survive while my mind drifts toward the edge— but my heart wants both: freedom, change, a new start, however it can get there fastest, torn between fight and surrender, a stubborn beat against the quiet goodbyes.

some live because they want to— others because they promised they’d stay. i never wanted to, not really. i was taught from childhood: be perfect, hide every crack, because giving in—ending it all—is weakness. so even if they hurt me deep, even if i have to play by their rules, i won’t let them win by breaking me.

and earlier i pressed my fingers into the bruise, just to watch it bloom again—violets and sickly yellows spilling under my skin; because better this sharp bloom than the dull hum of nothing, better the sting that bites back than the heavy quiet that makes my bones forget they exist; and if hurt is all i have to feel alive, then let it bite deeper, let it carve its name into me so i know i’m still here.