The voices hum, a broken refrain—
slut, unloved, never enough.
I press my hands against my ears,
but they slip through the cracks of my mind,
soft as a sigh, sharp as a knife.
I whisper back—
He loves me, it's real, it's more than this.
But doubt is a serpent, coiled in my ribs,
hissing truths I cannot unhear.
So I push, I run, I ruin—
before love can ruin me first.
It's the only script I know,
the only ending I trust.
Emptiness follows, a vast, yawning void,
a hunger that swallows everything
but the demons who stay,
faithful shadows in the dark.
They whisper too, but never lie.
They carve their truths into my skin,
red ink blooming like poetry,
a language only I can read.
You say it's not real, that I can heal,
but your words slide off my hollow bones.
There is no cure for this,
no escape, no saving grace—
only the weight of my own existence,
and the waiting, the waiting,
for the day I have the courage
to let go.