Giving a second chance is like giving someone a second bullet because they couldn’t **** you by the first shot—
I learned that the hard way.
What you once gave became what broke you.
They say salt looks like sugar—
little did I know sayings are made for reasons and wouldn’t exist without them,
some like myself are just unlucky enough to have to taste the salt.
Even once is one too many times.
You never forget the awful sting on your tongue,
the way your throat becomes dry and tense,
all the water you take to try and undo the effects—
yet you still end up sat there with your stinging tongue and dry throat,
regretting your choices like you always do.
Why would you do that?
You should have tested the ‚sugar‘.
Why would you hand over that bullet?
You should have known they’d want to see the blood they never got the chance to look at after their failed shot.
Then they’d say something along the lines of ‚Its okay, because the red means I love you.‘
And you’d forgive.
Again.
Again.
Over,
and over.

Eventually you’ll gain questions as to why you stay.
Out of desperation?
Or out of love?
Guilt?
Paranoia?
But before you make your choice to finally go,
they leave you first.
Despite what intricate plan you had already devised,
knowing you would leave them—
being left first hurt.
More than you ever expected.
So abrupt that the shock shatters you more than the knowing they do not love you,
knowing you’re no longer everything they once said,
alienated from the words you held onto for so long to convince yourself to stay.

Time will pass.
Some days you forget—
some days all you can do is remember.
The feeling isn’t as heartbreaking,
but that doesn’t help the fact that it’s there,
and always will be.

Дать второй шанс — это как дать кому-то второй пуль, потому что они не смогли убить тебя первым выстрелом —
Я научился этому тяжёлым путём.
То, что ты когда-то дал, стало тем, что тебя сломало.
Говорят, что соль похожа на сахар —
Мало ли я знал, что пословицы созданы по какой-то причине и не существовали бы без этой причины,
некоторые, как я, просто достаточно неудачливы, чтобы попробовать соль.
Даже один раз — это слишком много.
Ты никогда не забудешь тот ужасный укус на языке,
как горло становится сухим и напряжённым,
всю ту воду, которую ты пьёшь, пытаясь отменить последствия —
но всё равно остаёшься сидеть там с жгучим языком и сухим горлом,
сожалея о своих выборах, как всегда.
Зачем ты это сделал?
Ты должен был проверить этот «сахар».
Зачем ты отдал эту пулю?
Ты должен был знать, что они хотят увидеть кровь, которую они так и не успели рассмотреть после неудачного выстрела.
И они скажут что-то вроде: «Всё в порядке, потому что красный цвет значит, что я тебя люблю».
И ты простишь.
Снова.
Снова.
Снова и снова.

Со временем у тебя возникнут вопросы, почему ты остаёшься.
Из отчаяния?
Или из любви?
От чувства вины?
Паранойи?
Но прежде чем ты примешь решение уйти,
они уйдут первыми.
Несмотря на тот сложный план, который ты уже выстроил,
зная, что ты уйдёшь —
быть оставленным первым больнее, чем ты ожидал.
Так внезапно, что шок ломает тебя сильнее, чем осознание, что они не любят тебя,
зная, что ты больше не являешься всем тем, чем они когда-то тебя называли,
отчуждённый от слов, за которые ты так долго держался, чтобы убедить себя остаться.

Время пройдет.
Некоторые дни ты забываешь —
некоторые дни всё, что ты можешь делать, это помнить.
Чувство уже не такое разрушительное,
но это не помогает факту, что оно есть,
и оно всегда будет.

“I’m sorry I left but it was for the best, though it never felt right.”
Such words pleaded to be untrue to you.
They would never really leave you.
They’re coming back.
Why would they leave?
They wouldn’t.
You’re sure of it.
You just have to wait, and they’ll come back soon enough.

But then—
how could they leave you alone just like that?
Betray your trust?
You feel your blood seethe under your skin,
your chest tightening.
Burning.
After all you gave, all those moments shared—
wasted, as if they meant nothing.
Vile.
You told yourself they never cared,
bitterly weaving lies to shield your fragile heart,
fending off the grief with barbed fences of hate and resentment.

Oh, what you’d give for a second chance.
Anything.
Everything.
Memories replay in your mind,
flicking through every word you ever spoke to them,
thinking of what you could have said differently.
Surely, if you had acted differently,
they’d still be here with you.
Just like always.

You don’t want to move.
You don’t want to eat.
You don’t want to sleep.
Or really, you can’t.
An empty hole in your chest is left behind,
taking the space your heart once filled.
How could you be angry?
If they were struggling so much,
why couldn’t you just have helped them?
Maybe then they wouldn’t be gone.
A rope you never held suddenly slipped from your grasp.
Unable to climb to the surface,
you drown in a pool of self-hatred,
every bludgeoning, deprecating thought attacking you
with relentless, mindless force.
A piece of your soul,
ripped from your body.
The beast in your throat begins to claw,
but the tears in your eyes don’t dare to escape,
even though freedom waits on the other side.

Your candle is still lit.
A strange realization when you’d sworn you’d blown it out.
You hold your hands over it, seeking solace in its warm yet burning touch,
softly pricking your skin.
Even when you blow the candle out,
you can always light it again,
even if it’s not the same flame.
It will always bring you light,
even if it’s not the same kind.

And when the candle runs out,
you’ll still have a jar of memories—
small flickers sitting quietly at the back of your mind.
They may not feel important,
but each flame shapes your soul,
a warmth that never fades entirely.
You keep going,
not because you forget,
but because their light becomes a part of you.
A light that will never go out,
even when the flame is gone.

Are you okay?
Yes, I’m fine.
Are you really?
No.
Why didn’t you say that before?
Why would I?
You can tell someone when you don’t feel okay.
No I can’t.
Why?
No one really listens. They only want to act like they do and then ask if I want a hug. No one tries.
They do.
They don’t. Some tell me I’m selfish, or call me attention seeking to my own friends behind my back: the ones I trusted with my own emotions.
You’re just paranoid.
When I had issues a friend yelled at me, accusing me of faking them for attention. They didn’t want to help, nor did I really want any at the time. I didn’t want be yelled at though either. I’d have preferred they just stayed quiet.
You’re being dramatic.
I tried to look completely fine but it made me feel guilty and sick.
Oh shut up. You know some people have real problems right? Stop acting like you’re really that hurt.
…
Are you okay?
Yes, I’m fine.
Are you really?
Yes.
Okay.

The mirror before me does not lie,
no matter how much I beg it to.
Soft spoken words once given to my appearance have now only faded into shrill and distorted knells in my ears,
screaming things the devil could never utter,
even in a pure fit of rage.

My eyes see myself,
yet my mind can only stare at a horrid, warped creature,
turning whatever dared to reflect such a ghastly image like itself to stone.

Not all scars are seen,
but the mirror plucks them all out into view,
even from the darkest corners of my mind.
It watches.
No pity.
No remorse.
Just a quiet surface of glass which exists only to howl truths long buried within myself,
the kind of noise that echoes in the soul, leaving no space for peace to even think to enter.

Then it shatters.
The sheer weight of my existence making even something as inanimate as a mirror break down at the sight of the mess I call my person.
The tiny fragments look up at me with pure disgust,
a thousand images of myself encircled around me.

The mirror never spoke a word.
It never needed to.
The voice I heard was only my own,
yelling from the depths of my reflection,
weaving a tapestry of shame only I could create.
It did not judge,
nor distort,
nor condemn.
It only represented me thoughts I had cried at myself in silence for years.

Sometimes I can’t tell if numbness is a gift or curse. When you feel nothing people will call you lucky or similar things but others will call you inhuman, or heartless. You don’t understand why, so you’ll never know what’s wrong with you. You understand your own thought process but no one else does. Or really, no one else can. It doesn’t hurt so you debate whether it should or not. These debates over ‚deciding‘ what you ‚should or should not feel’ will ultimately have an end— a logically and strategically thought out result. These results build a personality for you to use at will. After a while you don’t even know of you can or can’t feel. Either way you won’t win, so choose.

”Oppressed by controlled by my feelings, I strive to escape them. Yet, if I succeeded I would not be as human as I yearn to be. Doing so, I would reduce myself to what others would call a villain, not a person who is trying to tear away the binds of life and set themselves free.”

“‘Walk in a straight line.’ ‘Copy this.‘ ‘Always do this, but never this.’ 'If you want to do well you must do this.’ Let the dictators chant on and the mindless fools follow. Let them all turn out the same— stripped of their individuality by force fed influence. I couldn’t care less. Focus on yourself— what you do best. If you can do this simple task, you will go places they have never even dared to imagine, constantly fearing what has been taught right and wrong.”

“Some birds were never meant to be in cages, never meant to be controlled by another. Eventually, it killed them. Their colour was stripped from their feathers, looking all the same, with broken voices, all act the same.”

I despise time.
I despise having too much of it.
I wait too long and it forces thoughts I’d kept hidden for as long as I could to resurface back to my conscience,
some invisible force that serves to torture my being,
tearing at my core,
as if my chest held a crumbling hour glass.

I despise time.
It goes as quick as it comes,
taking everything I desperately hold onto along with it,
washed away in its corruption.
Family.
Friends.
What I love.
What I keep close to me.
All ripped away in time‘s merciless hands.

I despise time.
Too long in the dark,
staring at walls—
it warps my sight,
summoning that of which I beg to never see again,
yet somehow always comes back.
The faces.
The shadows.
Waltzing around my head in a mocking game,
I lay,
clutching the pulse threatening to burst through my chest.
My stomach hollow and twisting,
my mind unable to divide the real and unreal.
Are the shadows illusions of unnecessary fear?
I can no longer tell.
I look to my left,
and look to my right,
and wake up.
. . .
No I didn’t.
Time seized me in its spiral once again,
smearing colours of confusion and panic across my weak mind—
staining it in thick strokes, never to be peeled off.
The shadows gone,
disintegrated back into each corner of my room,
but the everlasting nausea remains to taunt me.

I despise time.
It creates questions never to have answers.
Why must I become a victim?
No answer.
Why must time steal from my life?
No answer.
Why must it cause my pain,
my grief,
my fear—
yet still bring happiness,
fleeting contentment?
No answer.
Time cannot speak,
questions remain unanswered.
Actions speak louder than words but time makes sure I can’t unravel its intentions,
enjoying observing my suffering,
my anguish,
and my sorrow.
I cannot escape time,
no beginning,
no end.
It traps me in a prison I’ll never escape,
leading anxiety and paranoia into my life instead.
Those are no keys,
my cell will not unlock until time allows it to,
freed by death.

One Person.
Two Eyes.
Three Reasons to cry,
Every reason to lie.
Four hands I see as an ocean of what I bargained with to forget fills my vision.
Five sharp pains tearing at my throat while I clench my teeth together,
the scalpel of a tear running down,
carving an unsightly incision.
Six seconds.
Hold my breath.
Then breathe.
Seven minutes I feel I want to pass away where I stand,
fade from all that are granted sight.
before my phone blinks at me once again with its one blinding eye.
Eight notifications I choose to ignore,
their glow a blinding bright.
Nine voices whispering, “Let yourself go, you’ll be alright.”
Ten quiet promises;
tomorrow will come,
even if I don’t believe it tonight.

Nothing can ever be ‚real‘ or ‚true‘. Neither can it be ‚false‘. Perspectives offer no limits, but so many exist that such an amount cannot be taken into accurate representation or account. For one person something may be good, their statement seems true to them. Another may say something is bad, which is also true to them. The first person views the second‘s as false, and the second views the first’s as false. Opinion based true or false, real or unreal, will never be accurate unless put to an average, which is almost impossible given the amount of people on our Earth and their circumstances.

Everyone is an alien, a creature, a thing. No one would say it’s true, but it just is and that’s fact. We consider what does not look like us, act like us, or sound like us as the term ‚alien‘. But to those ‚aliens‘ we are also the same. We simply gave ourselves what is now the name ‚Humans‘ because it sounds much more sophisticated than ‚thing‘ ‚being‘ or ‚creature‘, said so much that it’s only natural now. Through the eyes of another being, we are not humans. We are aliens. Identity is created by the being, not by nature.

What is the meaning of life? Does the meaning of life lie in the pursuit of love, faith, or personal achievement? Or is it something entirely unique to each of us?
This widely debated question has intrigued humanity since the dawn of our intelligence. Answers vary depending on individual perspectives and experiences. Some live lavishly while others face immense hardships in both childhood and adulthood. Others live a life not with luxury, yet not with great poverty— a balance. These different starts in life proceed to shape an individual’s answer to our question. The three perspectives form a spectrum to point to the ‘why’s of an individual’s answer. Many believe that the meaning of life is simply to take opportunities, make the right decisions, and live. This could apply to all three points and can come from any person. Others view the meaning of life to plainly be to accept their given life and see which path it decides to lead them down, ultimately trusting in fate. This may tend to apply to those who experience luxury or moderate, ‘middle class’ lives. It can still apply to those of less fortunate backgrounds, though perhaps not as often. They could be searching for comfort in their situation through the belief that fate will guide them positively. A large percentage of people believe they are to constantly achieve, always striving to be at the top. This could originate from having the idea that you must bring honour to your family or to yourself, reaching for recognition. While so many people discover their meaning of life, others simply take no interest— in other words— do not care at all.

Throughout history, religion has always been a significant part of living for many. Religions have influenced humanity for hundreds and thousands of years, causing both conflict and a close form of the idea of peace. It has shaped human morality, influencing our notions of right and wrong, good and evil— yet often intertwined with conflict and bloodshed. Ideas about the meaning of life are often shaped by teachings from holy texts and proverbs, depending on time and individual perspective. A devout believer may perceive the meaning of life to revolve around their god, and express their devotion through spreading the word of their texts. They may believe their god has planned everything, leaving them to rely solely on their faith without altering the course of their life. Not all religious groups are this way, and can have the same or similar answer as any average person would.

While religion often serves as a guide for life’s meaning, love ties us to our humanity on a deeply emotional level. Many pursue it— believing the meaning of life to them is to search for their ‘soulmate’— who they believe they are destined to be with for their life. While some focus on Eros (romantic love), others focus on Philia and Storge (friendship and familial love). Philosophers like Nietzsche suggest that love often comes with suffering, which is undeniably true. Such love—whether Storge, Philia, or Eros—can be one-sided or unreciprocated, leading to inevitable pain. Searching solely for love may be ideal in one’s eyes, despite the inevitable suffering they know they will face. Someone who spends their life loving will often feel anxious, or pressured to be perfect, fearing being left alone. Love, far from being an easily attainable ideal, demands compromise, vulnerability, and mutual effort. It can involve one person only, and these people may focus on self love— looking after themselves. Self love is not selfishness nor narcissism, but the act of setting the tone for how you want to be treated, and how you believe you deserve to be treated. People practice the ways of self love to reduce anxiety, keep a stable mental health, and to focus on having a healthy lifestyle for their body and mind. Many do not pursue love in any of its forms, knowing that it is ultimately conditional, and they may not be drawn towards that.

I, as a young person, do not yet have an extremely clear meaning to my life. Though, if I had to give an answer, I would say my personal meaning to life is to be recognised and strive to be the best. I come from the ’higher middle class’ of the spectrum I earlier spoke of, and have been granted many opportunities in life— that of which I have focused on taking. To me, life is an opportunity to nurture my mind and channel my intelligence into writing. I will utilise both the experiences of hardships and grief to form my writing. Having my emotions and experiences at my disposal provides a way to achieve my life goal of recognition amongst many. Once I complete the goals I have, and which I will set in the future, I myself will be complete. My life will have found its meaning, and I can move towards passing on to the afterlife in peace and satisfaction.

There is not a singular meaning to life— no fixed answer. Rather, it is what a person makes it. The meaning of life is personal, only able to truly be interpreted if on a personal level. No one can ever fully understand another being‘s answer. The meaning of life is simply an interpretation in millions of forms— unique to everyone and everything. In the end, perhaps the question is not universal but deeply personal: not ‘What is the meaning of life?’ but ‘What gives your life meaning?’