Crash the scene, break my frame,
We show up with all eyes on me.
Live on fire, burn the night,
two steps forward, four in the fight.

You want it, yeah, you think you do,
grip my shadow, run from truth.
Spinning wheels, pushing down,
scream it loud, nobody’s around.

Drive me mad, drive me wild,
just call me yours for just a while.
We don’t rush, we collide,
messy hearts we try to hide.

Tryna trash my mask, I’m a poster-boy,
blades and ink, but you love me because
I run, I fall, I scream, I play,
chasing the ghosts that won’t stay.

I break too easily.
crying at nothing,
shattering at everything.

The world calls it
too much,
too loud,
too fragile to be worth holding.

I twist in my own skin,
a mess of nerves,
a storm that never quiets.

Useless, I whisper to myself,
useless as paper in the rain,
melting, tearing,
never strong enough
to carry anything.

Even love cuts its hands on me
and I hate that,
hate that I ruin
what little I’m given.

So I play the part:
the hysterical shadow,
the one who feels too deep,
too wrong,
too endlessly broken.

But still,
under the noise,
I breathe.
Still here.
Even when I don’t know why.

Life keeps striking,
one blow after another,
until my ribs feel hollow,
my spirit bruised.

And then it comes back,
that thought.
Quiet at first,
like a shadow in the corner.
Then louder,
pressing against my chest.

I wrestle with it.
I want to live,
to hold on,
to find a way through,
but that thought
keeps circling back,
like a tide that refuses to rest.

No one sees the battle.
No one understands
the weight of a war fought
in silence.

So I write it down,
trap it in ink,
so it won’t devour me whole.

I am still here,
not because it’s easy,
but because I keep choosing
life,
again,
and again,
even with that thought
always at the door.

The thoughts come sharp,
like glass in my hands.
I don’t fight them,
I set them down.

Ink takes the blade from me,
presses it flat
against white paper,
silent and still.

The page does not bleed,
does not break,
it only listens,
and closes quietly
when I am done.

So I leave my storms there,
bottled in margins,
tucked in a spine.

And when I rise,
my hands are lighter,
my mind a little quieter,
my skin untouched.

The thought returns,
like a shadow leaning across the room.
It whispers endings,
neat and final,
like closing a book.

But writing it down
is lighter than holding it.
The page doesn’t flinch.
The words don’t judge.

And here I am still,
breathing through the ink,
choosing once more
to leave the last line open.

I keep rehearsing the ending
in my head.
Curtains drawn,
silence after.

The thought comes easy,
like muscle memory,
like checking the lock twice
before leaving.

I sketch exits
on the margins of days,
erase them,
then draw again.

But each time,
something small holds me,
a crack in the wall
letting in morning,
a voice on the line,
the sheer weight of unfinished hours.

So I stay.
Unsteady, unwanted by myself,
but still here.
Still rehearsing,
never closing the scene.

nothing works right here
doors swell shut
lights flicker out

I give it all,
still feels half-finished
like a song cut mid-chorus

the people I love
leave limping
like I’m bad luck
that rubs off

so I turn cold,
keep distance,
wear silence like armor

meanwhile my body
is a clock with missing gears,
ticks, stalls,
ticks, stalls

still, I drag forward
through the static,
through the rust,
through the weight