“I thought I could outrun the grief of losing you,
trying to bury my sadness, my pain,
using anything, everything, to make me forget,
to numb the ache, to pretend for just a moment
that you weren’t gone.

But no matter what I do, it still finds me—
in the quiet, in the dark, in the empty spaces you left behind.

I see you everywhere.
In the faces of strangers, in the echoes of old conversations.
I think about you all the time,
wondering if you’d still be here if I had done something—anything—differently.
I blamed myself for your absence.

Who am I supposed to work hard for now?
Who is left to be proud of me?
You were the only one who ever truly cared.

I tried to run from the grief,
but grief is cruel—it hides, it waits,
it strikes when I least expect it,
dragging me back into the loss, the emptiness, the silence.

I tried to escape, but I failed.
I always fail.”

TW⚠️


He was shattered, but only his body cracked,
covered in the stories of his past,
looking in the mirror with disgust,
staring at the monster he craved himself into—
the cuts, a sick comfort,
numbing the ache,
but leaving something darker behind.
Each line, a piece of him carved away,
and still, the craving remains—
the need for more,
even as it eats him alive.

Every cut on his skin was a word he couldn’t say out loud,
words that will forever be scarred on his skin,
a constant reminder of every struggle,
every breakdown,
every obstacle.
The blood stains, fading,
but never fully gone,
just like the guilt—
a shadow he can’t outrun,
a weight that never lifts,
a burden that follows him always.
Each cut, a momentary release,
but the relief feels hollow—
a temporary fix to a wound that never heals.
The skin is numb,
but so is the soul—
he’s forgotten what it’s like to feel whole.
He feels empty, alienated.

He watches others,
their skin untouched,
free from the weight of what he’s become,
and wonders if they ever know how it feels to carry a past
that refuses to let go.
But what’s left?
The scars fade,
but the emptiness lingers,
like an echo that never stops,
a whisper that haunts him.

His body betrays him,
a map of lost battles—
but it’s the silence after the pain
that is the worst part.
The numbness after the bleeding,
the crushing weight of nothing yet everything at the same time.
And still, the craving remains,
always,
forever lingering.
No matter how hard he tries to drown these thoughts,
they linger like a haunting melody,
repeating over and over again.
Pleading with the voices to stop,
but they only grow louder.
Louder and louder,
like a scream he can’t release.

Yet the moment the blade meets his skin,
the voices finally fall silent.
The pain floods his body, sharp and raw,
but it’s the only thing that drowns out the screams in his head.
Blood drips, warm and sickening,
mixing with the burning ache.
The relief is hollow—
temporary—but for that moment,
it’s all he can feel.
The nausea creeps up,
because the storm never quiets.
Not for long. Not ever.