I have run away.
Away from this cooked-up life.
How wrong was I to think that escaping from my own insecurities was going to fix anything?
Instead of staying, instead of trying. I gave up.
Me, only me. I’m the one to blame.
Why didn’t I try? To change.
Why didn’t I try? To chose the right ways.
I’m lost. I’m smashed. I’m bleeding.
The demons. Oh, the demons. Possessing me. Controlling me.
Get them out.
They have become me. I have become them.
Scratches, on my face, on my arms, on my thighs.
The anxiousness will kill me.
They will kill me
I will kill me.
Yet, instead of crying for help, instead of begging for amenity, I fold myself in and hush.
Letting the echoes of their shouting be my company.
My body is hollow. No feeling. No soul. No beating heart.
Twisting, turning, twirling. The world around me won’t stop from moving.
Should I stay here? Should I continue to be a coward and become invisible?
I don’t want to be like this. I despise it. Or is it me I despise?
Do they know? The feeling of insignificance? Feeling so small that if you disappeared no one would know?
But that’s what I’ll always be. The silence of the wind. The void of the beyond. I’m nothing.
Forever living on the outside.

I have run away.