10 June
It was my birthday.
No one came.
I sat in the dim room. The silence was loud, the kind that fills your lungs until it feels like you’re drowning in it.
I wanted to call her. My mom.
To ask if I could come home.
I imagined her voice, tired and sharp. I imagined her sighing. I even imagined her hitting me again, like before. And the strange part? I wanted it. Just to feel something. Just to confirm I still could.
I’m 23.
That number sounds grown. Sounds solid. But I feel like I’m falling apart.
I wanted to ask if I could sleep at her house, just for one night.
Not for comfort, I’ve given up on that, but for the illusion of safety. The weight of familiarity.
I needed her. I need her.
But when I reached for my phone, I froze.
What would I even say?
Hi Mom. I don’t want to be here anymore. What should I do?
I sat with those words in my head for hours. They echoed and overlapped, like a cruel choir. I felt small. I felt helpless.
I felt like maybe love doesn’t save us, maybe it destroys us. Quietly. Slowly.
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I wanted to tell her I was sorry.
That I wasn’t a good kid, but I really did try. I was trying.
But it didn’t matter.
Because now I was just sitting there, whispering help me into a room that didn’t echo back.
And there was blood. Too much of it.
I had done it again. Chased a feeling, any feeling, and found pain instead.
Why can’t I die?
I asked the ceiling.
No one answered.
I didn’t want death.
I wanted escape.
I wanted something softer than this life has been.
But that night, all I had was a body that wouldn’t break and a heart that wouldn’t stop hurting.
So I sat there.
Still here.
Still hurting.
