is where my darkest days live.
The corner of a quiet room,
where I sat with the weight of my own mind,
knees pulled tight against my chest
like I was trying
to hold myself together.
Because sometimes
hope feels like a liar.
They say hold on to hope,
but there were nights
when hope only stretched the suffering~
like a promise
that kept tomorrow alive
just long enough
for the pain to breathe again.
And my past…
my past is a ghost with a loud voice.
It visits without knocking,
summoning memories
that know exactly where I still bleed.
Some wounds never close 🪄
they just learn
how to whisper.
So I write.
Because pain has a language.
And every scar on my mind
holds a sentence waiting to be spoken
.
These words…
they are not pretty.
They are the ink of survival.
They are the echo of a war
between light and shadow
inside a restless soul.
And bipolar storms
do not ask permission when they arrive ,🦇
they flood the mind,
they shake the bones,
they rewrite the sky
between sunrise and midnight.
But still…
I write….
Because if suffering can speak,
then maybe healing
is listening somewhere
between the lines.

A place where hope once felt like a lie,
stretching the agony instead of ending it.
My past still calls sometimes,
old wounds whispering for me to bleed again.













