Pull the trigger, let the bullets fly,
or slit thy throat, or neck—
give me peace of mind,
or I'll give you a piece of my mind.

What if a tight rope will be in my neck,
since it fits in me?
Or what if I jump on top of the building?
What if I run away from my life,
run away from everything?

What if silence swallows me, and no one even notices? What if I disappear between breaths, like a ghost mid-sentence?

I wear a smile like a cracked mask, mouth stitched with practiced quiet. They only hear me when I scream. But now even the screaming echoes back empty.

I walk rooms like graveyards— every memory a tombstone with my name. They grieve the version of me they made up, not the one who dragged herself here, blood on her hands, but still breathing.

You ask me why I write like this? Because the pen never flinches. Because it doesn’t try to fix me, or hush me, or tell me to stay strong. It just bleeds with me.

So if I have to shatter— let it be on my own terms. Let my breaking be honest, not a secret shame wrapped in silk.

Because maybe, just maybe, there’s power in not hiding.