Quietly Existing

 All is lost; empathy is pain. The blade drips blood, a fallen grace. A soul drenched in darkness, yet she will not bend. Her eyes are haunted; her hands are cold. She wandered into the dark alone,  ashamed of what others may discover. The fear of self-love turning to disappointment made her unwilling to accept her path. Her past is marked with shadows and scars, yet her resilience never has wavered. She now searches past the demons in her mind to fully understand herself in all of her beauty.

 ...and you don't want to be found, come home. When you're broken and lose hope in life, just breathe. When you lose yourself and you push everyone out, stop and focus on who you love. When you feel like you aren't worth fighting for, reanalyze your own thoughts. When you pause and reflect, you gain insight into who you are, who you want to become, and what you have to do to get there... ...and when you finally get yourself back, don't let anyone take you away from you again.

      She wakes up on a bed she instantly recognizes. She's no longer in her current house, the one she got when she was running from something she can't quite remember. However, when she properly looks around after the haze leaves her eyes, a horrifying realization sets in. This is her childhood home, the one that got torn down years ago...the house that's supposed to be gone.      Yet here she was, lying in her childhood bed. It's the same ceiling stain, same wallpaper, peeling at the corners like the place had only just been abandoned. She sits up slowly, afraid that sudden movement might wake something. Her body knows this place better than her mind can catch up; her shoulders curl inward on instinct, her feet avoid the cold patch on the floor near the door. She does not look towards the closet. "I've got to be dreaming..." she says out loud, because that's the rule. Say it and it loses power.     The house doesn't respond. She opens the bedro...

    As a child, I believed my biological parents chose drugs over me. It always felt personal and deliberate, and I carried that belief for years. It wasn't until I faced my own struggles that the shape of that choice began to change. Seeing both sides didn't excuse the pain, but it taught me some things I never expected to understand.     My parents often struggled with alcohol and hard drugs, and throughout my childhood, I dealt with feelings of anger, hurt, distrust, and hatred. Despite being raised by someone without these issues, in adulthood, I found myself drawn to alcohol, LSD, and pills (Xanax, painkillers, muscle relaxants, etc.) I wasn't drawn to a particular pill, and I never really turned to harder drugs. I was always desperate to "escape life for a while" or "drown out my emotional sorrows." Eventually, I even had a period of time where I took handfuls of Benadryl without even counting (not due to the old TikTok challenge.) Don't do tha...

 This is what I long for: adventure with the sunrise, passion in my core, taking pictures with my eyes. As it's time for sunset and the night to fall, I see your silhouette, even within the fog. Sometimes, I turn and toss. I long for the quiet, yet the mind creates chaos. Still, I try to fight it. The morning comes and I can see the doves. Compassion plays the drums all for the sun above. Life is a never-ending show. My inner self, I wish to seek. Even when depression reigns, I know that this is me. The night returns once more, the time that day walkers fear. It's okay to want to explore the shadows beyond the door. Yet as I try to sleep, the demons infiltrate my mind. In my dreams, I fall too deep. Overwhelmed, I wake up blind. Blind to anything good as I force myself numb. A walk into suffering which at times, I succumb. Standing on the precipice, I'm close to the edge. For a moment, I don't mind the abyss as is born, a hopeless eclipse. Then, I feel the breeze as it ...

 Her pen dances like a tempest, writing about storms she cannot contain. Each word is a silent scream, her soul bleeding onto the page. In ink, she plants her sorrows, watching them bloom into understanding. The weight she bears grows lighter as she transforms pain into prose.