It hurts.
Hurts.
Hurts.
Hurts.
I shouldn't have.
I shouldn't.
Shouldn't.
But still,
No regrets.
Don't regret it.
Not even in the slightest.
Feels good.
The pain feels good.
Physical pain, needed.
Sad that the knife wasn't as sharp.
Crimson.
Red.
Blood.
Would've felt good to see.
Outside of being plagued by visions.
Something just real in this fabricated existence.
Internal pain.
Alone.
Abandonment.
They said, "Will always be here."
Weren't.
Not even a single person.
Reached out to all the trusted ones.
None.
Nobody at all.
All gone.
All far gone.
Pain.
Pain.
Pain.
Hurts too much.
Too alone.
Too much in pain.
Too much suffering.
Too much torture.
Too much.
Too much.
Too much.
Annihilating.
Dying.
Dying on the inside.
End of me.
It's the End of Me.
The End of a self of mine I once knew.
The End.
YOU ARE READING
For Instagram
PoetryOkay, so, I upload reels on Instagram and I'm thinking of changing the tempo of my account and for that, I'd be writing on Wattpad and then upload my original works on Instagram.
