Poison

This is anguish. Not a phase. Not a metaphor.
A weight that breathes with me.
When meaning collapses, life becomes emptier than death.
Death concludes. Life prolongs.
One ends. The other insists.

The throat dries. The eyes shut, not to sleep, but to disappear.
There is no escape while the heart keeps working like a traitor.
A prison without walls. A sentence with no crime.
Time scars my face—not with wisdom or freedom,
but with erosion. Slow. Indifferent.

I am worn down, not lived in.
I can’t carry it anymore.
Bonds unravel. Sense dissolves.
I drift in a violent ocean of doubt—no north, no shore, only rotation.
The pull of nowhere. Why do you take my peace? Silence turns predatory.
Cold. Calculated. A horror that doesn’t scream—it waits.

I empty myself of pain again and again, yet it remains embedded, driven into the marrow.
Words fail because they are too clean. My eyes are more honest.
They overflow, then shut tight, searching for reversal—any passage back to before pain claimed territory.
Things torn from the root do not die quickly.

The body obeys. Blood moves.
Breath continues its useless discipline.
Leaves cling long after they should have fallen.
I never wanted this. Wanting, for me, is fiction.
I keep mistaking depth for visibility, soul for recognition.
I show essence. They see surface.

I should be less. I don’t know how.
I still believe—against evidence.
The nights are the worst.
When the world goes quiet and there is nowhere left to hide from thought.

This is where I fight my war. Alone. No witnesses.
Pain is invisible—especially to those who never intended to see you.
How many more days?
How many more nights?
The heart drains slowly, like a thin leak into the ocean— endless, humiliating.

Perhaps if I opened myself.
Perhaps if I removed it.
But I was never taught how to destroy cleanly.
I search for an exit. I swear.
I search for answers. I swear.

Dragging myself across dry ground, asking a question no one hears.
Who would pull me out today?
Sleep could be mercy— if it erased memory.
If waking meant none of this was real.
But there is no hand to shake me back, as I once did for you.

I do not write about you yet.
When words arrive, they declare reality.
And this—somehow—has not crossed that line.
This is only a record. A document of the damage caused by distance that speaks through silence.

I am still alive.
Alive enough to feel every isolated pulse of pain.
This is anguish. Nothing poetic about that.
And no—I am not as strong as I wish I were.