It never begins
with the moment itself—
people think it does,
but really it starts
with that slow, heavy ache
curling through my thoughts,
a storm swelling beneath my ribs
with no name,
no edges,
just pressure
building and building
until I can’t tell
where the pain ends
and I begin.
I try to breathe through it,
try to talk myself down,
try every “healthy” thing
I’ve been told to do—
but it all feels like trying
to hold back an ocean
with trembling hands.
The emotions pile up too fast:
fear on top of grief,
panic tangled with numbness,
sadness humming under everything,
and the noise gets so loud
I can barely hear myself think.
And somewhere in that chaos,
my mind drifts —
not choosing,
not deciding,
just slipping into a quiet,
dangerous kind of autopilot.
Reaching for relief
without noticing
what I’m reaching with.
It’s not that I want this.
God, I don’t.
I don’t want this to be
the way I cope,
the way I breathe,
the way I survive the nights
when the storm refuses to settle.
I just want
a different kind of pain —
one that makes sense,
one I can point to,
one that answers back
instead of echoing endlessly
through my chest.
And then—
like waking up too fast—
I see the red on my hands,
bright and jarring,
like a warning light
I didn’t see flick on
until it was too late.
For a heartbeat
I freeze.
Everything in me stops—
the thoughts, the panic,
even the storm—
and the horror rises sharp and sudden:
I didn’t realize.
I didn’t mean this.
How did I get here again?
The relief I felt
just moments before
tastes like guilt now,
like fear,
like shame settling heavy
in the back of my throat.
I hate that it works.
I hate that it quiets the noise
when nothing else does.
I hate that in the darkest moments
it feels like the only door
that opens
when the walls start closing in.
But I want a different way.
I want to breathe
without breaking.
I want to feel
without hurting.
I want to soothe the storm
without sacrificing
pieces of my flesh
just to get one moment
of quiet.
I’m trying—
even when it doesn’t look like it,
even when I stumble
into old patterns,
even when the storm
pulls me under again.
I don’t want this
to be my only way out.
I just haven’t found
another way
that works
yet.
But I’m still searching.
Still reaching.
Still hoping
there’s a softer kind of relief
waiting for me
somewhere I haven’t learned
to look.
Dec 8, 2025
Dec 8, 2025 at 9:24 PM UTC
It never begins
with the moment itself—
people think it does,
but really it starts
with that slow, heavy ache
curling through my thoughts,
a storm swelling beneath my ribs
with no name,
no edges,
just pressure
building and building
until I can’t tell
where the pain ends
and I begin.
I try to breathe through it,
try to talk myself down,
try every “healthy” thing
I’ve been told to do—
but it all feels like trying
to hold back an ocean
with trembling hands.
The emotions pile up too fast:
fear on top of grief,
panic tangled with numbness,
sadness humming under everything,
and the noise gets so loud
I can barely hear myself think.
And somewhere in that chaos,
my mind drifts —
not choosing,
not deciding,
just slipping into a quiet,
dangerous kind of autopilot.
Reaching for relief
without noticing
what I’m reaching with.
It’s not that I want this.
God, I don’t.
I don’t want this to be
the way I cope,
the way I breathe,
the way I survive the nights
when the storm refuses to settle.
I just want
a different kind of pain —
one that makes sense,
one I can point to,
one that answers back
instead of echoing endlessly
through my chest.
And then—
like waking up too fast—
I see the red on my hands,
bright and jarring,
like a warning light
I didn’t see flick on
until it was too late.
For a heartbeat
I freeze.
Everything in me stops—
the thoughts, the panic,
even the storm—
and the horror rises sharp and sudden:
I didn’t realize.
I didn’t mean this.
How did I get here again?
The relief I felt
just moments before
tastes like guilt now,
like fear,
like shame settling heavy
in the back of my throat.
I hate that it works.
I hate that it quiets the noise
when nothing else does.
I hate that in the darkest moments
it feels like the only door
that opens
when the walls start closing in.
But I want a different way.
I want to breathe
without breaking.
I want to feel
without hurting.
I want to soothe the storm
without sacrificing
pieces of my flesh
just to get one moment
of quiet.
I’m trying—
even when it doesn’t look like it,
even when I stumble
into old patterns,
even when the storm
pulls me under again.
I don’t want this
to be my only way out.
I just haven’t found
another way
that works
yet.
But I’m still searching.
Still reaching.
Still hoping
there’s a softer kind of relief
waiting for me
somewhere I haven’t learned
to look.
Warning! This is a poem about self-harm!
