The realization of the delusion breaks like shattering glass.
Not much sooner, I’ll be here—or maybe I won’t.

It’s not in my hands.

I tell myself: in every situation, I have a choice.
I choose not to run away to smoke.
I choose to still choose love, after being hurt.
I love myself enough to not take my own life.

There’s something bigger I’m going for.
They say they see it.
Understand.
Agree.
Disagree.
Show fake love.

At the end of the day, deep down—past my heart, the flesh, the bones—
is lingering hurt, betrayal, and no respect.
Hatred that eats me alive.
It’s not for all… but for those.

I could live in silence my whole life,
just to avoid feeling such things from
an interaction,
a sudden change,
a face I recognize,
a conversation I didn’t want.

Even though, on the outside,
I’m cool, calm, and somewhat collected.

Maybe, in this writing,
I can take what eats me up inside
and turn it into something I can learn from—
before it’s too late.

With light, there must be dark.
And for me,
my temper is like a switch
constantly being flicked
while I hold a straight face.

Honestly,
if you observed closely,
you might see the emotions slipping—
but probably not.

The average person in this age
can hardly notice a change in their own child.

Silence is bliss.
I’d rather hold it in
than show the monsters in my basement.