My own prison

I want to push everyone away—

but not really.

And you're probably wondering,

Well, then what the hell do you actually want?

What you don't understand is,

it's my BPD that makes me feel this way.

This illness consumes me whole.

I'm drowning in it.

Suffocating.

Every once in a while,

I come up for a breath.

But just one.

Before the water drags me under again.

It's painful.

So painful.

And I can't escape.

I am my own prison.

My bones—iron bars.

My soul—trapped.

But all you see is a mask.

A mask of happiness.

No illness. No chaos.

Nothing.

That's not the case.

I wish you could feel what I feel.

Go through what I go through.

And I know—

that must sound cruel.

But I want you to understand.

To really understand.

The chaos in my mind.

The hurt.

The endless storm.

Death is always knocking.

Constantly.

Begging me to open the door,

to take its cold hands.

To end it all.

But then—

another voice calls out:

Don't.

You've got this.

Live another day.

You'll get through it.

I don't want to hear that voice.

Not anymore.

Because I fear I won't get through it.

That I'll be locked here forever,

trapped in this body—

helpless.

Restless.

So don't tell me there's light at the end of the tunnel.

Don't give me that bullshit.

Because I don't believe you.

There is only darkness.

It consumes me.

Drags me down.

And one day—

I'll find peace.

By welcoming the darkness

that's already inside me.