The Sadness With The Light Of Hope

The hollow echo

The passing of time makes me realize—
I am nothing, just a void filled with tears,
a hollow echo of sorrow no one hears.
A void consumed by pain I can’t name,
a grief too tangled for ink to hold.
I tried to spill my wounds onto paper,
but the ink refused to bleed.
The paper, untouched, stays silent—
it does not deserve my burdens.
Should I really stain it with my suffering?

They say time heals, but time only watches,
a cruel observer to wounds that never fade.
I thought my pain had settled,
buried under forced smiles and empty words.
But it was only sleeping, waiting,
and now it wakes with a vengeance.
The echoes of cruel words return,
each syllable carving deeper into my chest.
Do I really not deserve happiness?
Am I truly unworthy of warmth?
Love feels foreign now,
like a distant star I was never meant to reach.

I am not enough—
not enough as a soul,
not enough as a person,
not enough as a friend.
Every attempt to be enough
crumbles into dust.
Everyone was right—
I was destined to fall.
It was foolish to cry, foolish to grieve,
but even after all this time,
every reminder reopens the wounds,
a fresh sting over old scars.

In my restless anxiety,
I trace the same wounds, over and over,
dragging my nails across my skin,
watching the red lines bloom like wilted flowers.
No one notices the bleeding,
so I cut deeper, press harder,
until pain is the only proof that I still exist.
But even pain feels empty now,
just another echo in this hollow void.

I want to cry for help,
but my voice is lost in the silence.
Tears fall only in solitude,
slipping unnoticed onto cold bathroom tiles.
Only in the mirror do I see her—
the girl I no longer recognize.
She hides her pain too well,
and the world turns a blind eye.
How can they not see her suffering?
How can they not notice? How?

A friend once told me—
ignore the pain, move on,
everything will be fine.
He promised to stay,
promised to be there.
But now I wonder—
am I truly ignoring my pain?
Or am I just lying to myself,
pretending I am fine when I am shattering?

I want to ask him—
should I keep lying?
Should I keep pretending strength
when I am breaking beneath the weight?
Or should I admit that I am weak,
too fragile to hear the same cruel words
again and again?

But I can’t ask him.
He asked me for one thing—
to live.
Yet I had already planned my end
long before I knew him.