Two-Faced World

If this is life,

then I’m losing grip on what that word means.

I wake each day

in a house filled with echoes—

not voices, just memories

of the people I once loved

leaving

in their own quiet ways.

Some faded.

Some fled.

Some turned into strangers

right in front of me.

And each goodbye carved

a little deeper

into whatever was left of my heart.

The ache isn’t loud anymore—

it just is.

A slow burn.

A hollow hum beneath my ribs

where love used to live.

I try.

God, I try.

To change.

To be whole on my own.

To say I’m enough.

But we both know

that’s not the truth.

We crave love—

even when it breaks us.

A hand to hold,

a look that says you’re safe here,

even for one second.

But then the shift comes.

The light dims.

And I fall.

Not into a hole,

but an abyss—

deep, shapeless, and cruel.

There’s no bottom.

No ground to land on.

Just endless dark

where even your thoughts

run from you.

I try to crawl out,

try to reason,

try to tell myself this isn’t who I am,

but it is.

It always finds me.

I fall back

into the version of me I can’t outrun.

The one who hurts

just to feel something.

This world,

it has two faces.

One holds out hope—

faith, warmth,

the idea that maybe, maybe

you’ll be okay.

And the other—

stabs.

Smiles while it wounds.

Whispers sweet things

while twisting the knife.

I’m tired of bleeding for both.

Tired of trying to believe

when belief costs so much.

But still, I’m here.

Breathing in a storm

I never asked for,

waiting for something

to make staying

worth it.

Even if it’s just

a touch.

A word.

A moment

that says:

You’re not alone in the dark.