I broke me.
Not in the ways
people see.
Not in the way
you think it starts—
with a moment,
with a choice.

It began quietly,
the way a storm whispers
before it rips through everything.
The weight of things
pressing on me
until I could no longer tell
where I ended
and the pain began.

I broke me.
I didn't need anyone else
to hurt me.
I didn't need the world to tell me
I wasn't enough,
because I already knew that truth
too well.

There were no words
loud enough to drown the silence inside,
no love that could stitch the cracks
I wore like a second skin.
So I found a way to feel
something—
anything.
The blade became my breath,
the only thing that made me real
when everything else felt fake.

Each line,
each scar
was a plea,
a confession,
a cry
that no one could hear.

I broke me.
Not because I wanted to die—
but because I didn’t know how to live
with the weight of all the things
I could never say.

And when the bleeding stopped,
it wasn’t relief.
It was emptiness,
a hollow quiet where the pain used to be.
And I wondered
if this would ever end,
if I’d ever find a way
to unbreak myself.

But I broke me—
and sometimes,
that’s the hardest thing to forgive.