You want to know what’s wrong?
Why I’m like this? Why I pull away?
Fine. Sit down.
Let me ******* tell you.
It’s my head.
My own head—the thing I live in every **** day—
it doesn’t stop tearing me apart.
It turns everything into a problem.
Twists every word you say into something worse.
Invents reasons why you’ll leave
before you even think about staying.
I ask myself, Did you mean that?
Were you lying? Are you tired of me?
And it’s not you—
it’s me and this brain that won’t shut the **** up.
It’s a riot in here.
Screaming, tearing things apart, burning everything down,
while you sit there, calm, like I’m losing my mind for no reason.
“Relax,” you said once.
“Stop overthinking.”
Yeah? Great advice. Thank you.
Let me just hit the imaginary off-switch in my head.
Oh wait—it doesn’t exist.
I replay everything.
Every second, every word,
every glance you gave me that felt half a beat too long.
And I know I’m being crazy,
but that doesn’t stop the noise.
I second-guess every feeling I’ve ever had—
every good thing we’ve built—
because the voice in my head says it won’t last.
It tells me you’ll leave,
and I believe it.
I always believe it.
And you know what ****** me off?
You think I do this for attention.
You think I’m dramatic.
You think I’m trying to hurt you.
No.
I’m trying to survive in here.
In a head that picks apart everything good
and turns it into poison.
I ruin things before they can ruin me.
I push you away because that’s easier
than waiting for you to walk out the door.
And I hate it.
I hate that I can’t trust anything real.
I hate that I doubt every time you tell me you care.
And I hate that deep down,
I’m always waiting for you to stop loving me.
Because no one ever stays.
And honestly?
If you were smart,
you’d run now, too.
