At night, everything unravels.
The day folds itself into strange corners,
and the shadows start speaking again.
The day folds itself into strange corners,
and the shadows start speaking again.
Sometimes there’s a kind of quiet,
where for a second, breathing feels like a choice,
and not a battle.
Those moments are rare.
Most days feel heavier than they should.
You wake up already losing,
like something invisible got its hands around your throat, feeling suffocated even before you opened your eyes.
And you don't know why.
You drift.
Half there, half somewhere else.
Staring through people.
Forgetting how to answer simple questions.
The world feels like a broken mirror,
with each shard showing a version of you you don’t recognize.
You reach for yourself and cut your hands open.
People try to help.
They mean well.
They tell you to talk, to "get out more,"
to laugh at things that feel hollow.
You nod. You shrink.
You learn how to smile without meaning it.
You could pretend.
You could meet them halfway.
Lower yourself into that easy, forgettable noise.
But you won’t.
Because somewhere deep down, you still believe
your loneliness has teeth,
and it deserves to be faced, not numbed.
You chose this exile.
You carved it out for yourself.
There’s no use blaming anyone.
Still, there are nights when the loneliness
presses so close
you start writing just to hear yourself breathe.
Not for pity.
Not even for understanding.
Just the desperate hope
that somewhere,
someone might stumble across these broken words
and feel less alone inside their own silence.
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