It’s a prison with no doors, no windows—just walls made of my own thoughts, pressing in, suffocating. They crawl through my skull like parasites, whispering truths too cruel to ignore. Every waking moment, they remind me of everything I hate about myself, everything I’ve failed to be. They remind me that no matter how hard I try there is, no escape.
Sleep doesn’t come. When it does, it’s not rest—it’s just another space for the nightmares to spread, another realm where I am just as trapped, just as lost. The past, the future, the present—it all blurs into a single, unbroken loop of regret and hopelessness. There is no light at the end of this tunnel because there is no tunnel. Just an endless void, stretching forever, filled with echoes of my own self-loathing.
People say, “It gets better.” But they don’t understand. How can it get better when my mind is the enemy? When I am the monster lurking in my own darkness? There is no running from something that lives inside your skull. There is no hiding when the thing you fear the most is yourself.
And so, I sit here, locked in this cycle of torment, waiting for something—anything—to change. But nothing ever does. And all I want to do is lay down and die.