I hate this. This suffocating silence that wraps around my lungs and squeezes until every breath feels like begging. My body— a shell, dragged through hours by force of habit, not will. Muscles ache from nothing. My limbs fold like paper. And my mind? It’s a haunted house. Empty, echoing, but somehow still screaming. I cry without reason— or maybe with too many stacked too high to name. There is no war outside, but inside I am losing. Daily. Nightly. Again. Again. I whisper to the dark: Make it stop. But it doesn’t. It never does. I think about blades. Not because I want to die— but because I want to feel anything that makes more sense than this. I hate myself for it. For thinking it. For wanting to bleed just to prove that something in me still works. I must be weak. Mentally cracked, physically failing. Emotionally erased. A body still here— for what? Even my shadow leaves