a/n- this contains implications of self harm.
on the cusp of thursday,
the air hangs heavy with unspoken weight,
and the twilight wraps around me
like a shroud, thick and suffocating,
as if the shadows themselves
are longing for release.
i walk along the familiar streets,
where the echoes of laughter linger,
but all i hear is the dull thud
of memories clawing at the edges,
reminding me of a different kind of relief,
the sharp, fleeting moment
that whispered promises
with every glint of silver.
there was comfort in the chaos,
the way pain carved out a space
that felt real, raw,
where the noise of the world faded
into a soft murmur,
and i could finally breathe,
even if it was a breath laced with sorrow.
i remember the routine,
how the blade became an old friend,
the delicate incision an act of faith,
each cut a ritual that left marks
across my skin,
like an artist pouring out anguish
on an empty canvas,
the crimson paint blooming
with every movement,
each stroke a release
of all the things i couldn't say.
and afterward, the guilt would settle
like a heavy fog, a reminder
that i'd tread too close to the edge,
but in those moments,
the world felt muted,
and the ache faded to a distant hum,
as if i'd finally found a way
to quiet the storm inside.
yet now, as the dusk deepens,
i find myself teetering
on the brink of that familiar embrace,
the shadows beckoning with whispers
of sweet release,
and i wonder if i could just slip back,
if the relief would be as it once was,
as inviting as an old song
sung softly in the dark.
each breath is a battle,
a choice between slipping back
into that dark embrace,
yearning for the familiar sting
that once offered solace,
the quiet surrender
to the gravity of despair.
i ache for the moments
when the world melted away,
leaving only me,
the blade,
and the fleeting solace
of a pain so tangible,
so easily understood,
that the chaos felt like home.
here in this fragile stillness,
i am drawn to the shadows,
the longing pulling me deeper,
and as the night closes in,
i find myself craving
the comfort of the past,
the aching familiarity
of a routine that felt so alive,
even in its darkest depths.
YOU ARE READING
poems
Poetrypoems i've written. THE ONES FROM THE BOTTOM UP ARE THE BEST. i promise they get better and more lengthy. please don't take without credits. please don't copyright. and please don't make fun of these 🙏🙏😭.
