Fireflies in the storm

My mind and heart?

They don't separate—

not like oil and water.

No.

For me, it's all the colors,

spilled together,

blended into something dark.

Something stormy.

The color of chaos,

of clouds on the edge of breaking—

heavy, raw, electric.

But still holding back.

And you wouldn't understand.

So I call it what you want to hear:

a mess.

Nothing poetic, nothing worth explaining.

But I see it—

this knot of colors, this flood of feeling

that no words can untangle.

Because there are no words.

Nothing perfect enough

for pain like this—

this ticking time bomb

lodged under my ribs,

counting down,

aching to explode.

I'm tired.

Emotionally. Physically. Tired.

And you ask me,

"Why physically?"

Because my pain

is a wildfire that burns my body.

Every emotion feels like third-degree burns—

agony I can't escape.

And then it whispers to me—

soft, seductive, cruel:

"If you want to kill me,

you've got to kill yourself."

And I almost listen.

The knife glides across my wrist—

once.

Twice.

Crimson tears drip into the sink.

But it's not enough.

The voice taunts me,

"Deeper. Better. Finish it."

And I want to scream—

to rip this monster out of me,

to burn it alive.

But instead, I whisper:

"Someone, anyone, help me.

I can't do this anymore."

And then—

a knock.

Not loud, not forceful,

but soft. Persistent.

Hope.

A sliver of light beneath the door.

But the Reaper—he clings to me.

His bony grip tightens,

his voice a cold scream:

"DON'T!"

But it's too late.

The door bursts open,

and that sliver of light

floods the room.

Fireflies—

thousands of them,

warm and bright,

wrapping me in their glow.

And so, I live.

Another day.

Another battle.

But I live.