Crystals

A razor-thin edge between fleeting joy and relentless torment—where peace detaches from thought, and drags me back into a choking thread of despair.

It pulls me under, into sleepless nights, where distant echoes churn inside my skull, denying me rest, denying me repair.

There is no cure for this condition.

I’m lost—marooned in a mind that tears itself apart. My body crumbles, my mind collapses, and I toss the dice, begging for a reason to breathe again.

When I say I won’t write about love inspired, it’s because love dulls the blade of my fear, and when that blade is dulled, the words die with it.

I am unstable, delicate—a crystal on the edge of shattering.

The spears come daily, piercing deeper each time, and the wounds no longer remember how to close.

When does it end?

It’s a slow suffocation, drifting with no harbor to hold me. I don’t care if these words are ugly, if they disturb you, if they push you away—they aren’t for you.

They are fragments of me, screamed into silence.

Still, I speak. Still, I bleed through the keys.

I am not asking to be saved. I avoid death—not because I fear it, but because 

I haven’t finished being broken.


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