I don’t want to be a poet anymore. I’m tired of analyzing every detail, of twisting bruises into blooming flowers, of digging through wounds that are trying to heal just to extract metaphors. I’m exhausted from dressing up the pain that I feel in pretty words, pretending it might make everything okay. I used to capture constellations no one else noticed, to read love in the silence between words. I would bleed myself into pages, quiet as a mouse in the night, just to make sure no one else felt alone. But now the ink feels thick with grief. I press my pen to the page and nothing comes. The silence is softer these days, but it cuts just the same. I miss the simplicity of not needing to observe everything, not trying to translate chaos into clarity, not caring so much about the meaning hidden in every moment. Sometimes things are just messy, and that should be enough. I write and write, but if no one understands, does it even help? I bare my soul only to be wounded again. I ache to heal without having to carve it out in verse. Is the beauty of life really something words can hold, or is it only real when felt? I lie awake each night, slipping further from sanity, trying to find comfort in company, trying to make friends just to keep the demons at bay. I fight my battles alone, but is it so wrong to hope someone else’s light might help guide me through?
