At Last…
All that’s left is to laugh at my own acts, my own choices.
A hollow laugh, echoing through a body wrecked by wounds, sealed off from paths no one will ever even come close to. And I am losing what’s left of my mind.
No matter how hard I try to understand what broke inside me, I retreat.
She retreats.
Two pills.
Three o’clock in the morning. Not even then does peace take my hand. It only drags me deeper into a void where not even nothingness offers refuge.
That place — the place without pain — never existed. Not for me. I am already condemned to what others give, to the cages others choose for me.
They grow tired of me — tired of my flaws, of my outbursts, tired of the simple fact that I exist.
They realize I hurt — and I hurt worse than blades. This isn’t self-defense. It’s simply pain, raw and wasted.
Others feel nothing. I feel enough for all of them.
Pieces of me rot away, day after day — with no cure, no rescue, no meaning.
My children were never born.
My dreams never took root.
My eyes remain open because they no longer know how to close.
My future is just a worn-out memory.
Already spent. Already soulless.
No fairy tales.
No love stories.
No grace.
Love — I searched for it and found only an illusion, a cheap costume draped over broken wires and blind knots.
This is love, when it finally stands before me: mangled, deaf, blind, already dying.
What should bring me sleep now tears me apart.
I still feel it. My body still sobs in its silence. It carries this corpse of sorrow, heavier every day.
What drives my hand to write is disgust, nothing more. Don’t offer me your hollow phrases, your sugar-coated pity.
Keep your tired religious morals.
A mind that once burned bright does not kneel —it withers in silence — and accepts its ruin.
My small texts — one day, someone will read them. Someone who never knew me. Women who never loved me. Friends who never existed. Mothers who never raised sons like me.
They won’t last.
They’ll be read and forgotten.
Even I will forget them.
And someone else — someone luckier — will claim these fragments as their own, be loved by those I never touched, live lives I never had.
Wherever I end up, I will no longer write. There will be no more words. But somehow, even in the void, I might smile — an empty smile, meaningless.
That is life: to suffer, to smile without a reason, to vanish, leaving a wound behind.
My small texts returned because my spirit refused to die completely.
It demanded it.
And I, slave to my own ruin, obeyed.
And the pills have stopped working.
God, deliver me — not from evil.
Deliver me from existence.