Hello dear old self

Hey there, Stranger. 

Something’s rotting inside me,

and I don’t know when it started.

Lately, it feels like I’m breathing through water,

every emotion dragging me under.

Not just today. It’s been building—quiet, patient, cruel.

There’s this fury in me, small and endless,

like a cigarette that never burns out, just smolders.

The smallest spark sets me off.

Maybe this is punishment.

Maybe it’s just who I was always meant to become.

I talk about hope like it’s easy to hold onto,

but if I dropped the act,

if I let the anger swallow me whole,

what would happen then?

Would anyone even notice the difference?

And then there’s the hunger.

It coils beneath my skin, always waiting.

It’s not something I can explain without sounding broken.

It flares when a song drags something bloody out of me,

or when the stars look too far away to ever touch.

It’s the kind of ache that feels like dying,

and somehow, it still feels better than feeling nothing at all.

It’s a reminder that the life I want

is somewhere I still can’t reach.

Somewhere I’m not sure I’ll ever find.

Maybe it’s all meaningless.

Maybe I’m already too late.

I’m 23, but some days I feel like I’m already fading,

like parts of me are being erased, piece by piece,

and nobody even sees it happening.

I keep chasing a feeling that tears me apart—

something real enough to bleed for.

Tell me why I only want the things that ruin me.

Why I only feel alive when it hurts.

What is this thing inside me?

This thing that won’t let me rest?

Maybe the end is the only answer.