Bleeding Ink

They call it "loneliness."
I call it silence-the kind that wraps around you like a coffin made of comfort.

This is where I bury my unsaid thoughts.
The ones I can't tell anyone. The ones that scream behind my smile.
I used to have someone who listened, but distance is a cruel thief, and time has a habit of stealing people away. Now, it's just me... and the noise inside my head.

I've learned that friends aren't always what they seem.
Some laugh with you just to whisper when you turn your back.
So I write here-not for them, but for me.
To bleed out the words I never said,
to breathe in a world that never understood.

If pain had a diary, this would be it.