Sometimes I think of going back,
when my mind begins to scream.
When my body loses power,
and I fade into a dream.
Sometimes I'm close to giving in,
when laughter doesn't stay.
When everything feels heavy,
and the light just slips away.
And when I go back, I wonder:
was it worth that brief escape?
A second of still silence,
for a year of endless ache?
I go back... but I don’t speak it.
I hold it in and fake it.
Don’t want to hear their questions,
or see the way they break it.
I know I made a vow,
but I broke it, somehow.
Once again, I crossed that line,
once again, I said "this time."
To you, it’s been nine months.
To them, it’s still unknown.
To me, it never ended.
I’ve faced this all alone.
It returns when I get angry,
it returns when I just stare.
It returns when tears come easy,
it returns when no one's there.
It never really leaves me,
it hides in every mirror.
It speaks inside my silence,
it echoes every fear.
Red eyes, like every time I fall.
A guilty mind, behind it all.
A heart that whispers what I hide.
A soul too tired to even cry.
Going back feels automatic,
living feels so problematic.
Pain is loud, yet I stay static—
and healing? Never truly magic.
