#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.