this war never ends

There’s this feeling

that follows me—

not loud, not sharp—

just empty.

A silence

where emotion used to live,

a stillness that feels more like

collapse

than calm.

I wake up tired,

even when I’ve slept.

I move through the day

like I’m dragging

the weight of a thousand invisible battles.

And maybe I am.

Because inside—

there’s a war.

Between the part of me

that wants to heal,

and the part

that keeps digging the wound deeper

just to feel something.

It’s like finishing a war

that never really ended.

A false peace,

a temporary hush

before the ache starts again.

I want to do so many things.

I do.

I dream of them,

I write lists,

I promise myself tomorrow.

But then—

I turn away.

I sabotage it all.

Quietly, precisely.

Like I’m afraid of who I could be

if I ever stopped ruining it.

And I see it.

Every time.

That moment when I close my eyes

to the truth

and whisper,

“This is the last time.”

But it never is.

Not really.

Because comfort,

even in pain,

feels easier than change.

So I live in this space—

not broken,

just hollow.

Not lost,

just tired

of walking in circles

and calling it progress.

If this is peace,

why does it feel like surrender?