Shit hurts

I was twelve when the world turned its back and I learned how quiet the dark really is. Not silence—no, it hums. Like regret buzzing behind your teeth or a scream you swallowed and forgot how to spit. I didn't want to feel. So I reached for the slow killers, the glittery escape routes in crumpled baggies or bottles that tasted like missing fathers. They didn’t fix me— just made the pain easier to carry in a fog I could blame on something else. They say kids like me are troubled, like we woke up one day and chose ruin. No one asks why we're bleeding. No one sees the nights we stare at ceilings wondering if we matter at all. They only notice when we vanish. I had friends. Beautiful, broken people. Some floated too far, chased comets in their bloodstream and never came back. And the world just kept spinning like their lives meant nothing. You grow up thinking adults will save you. But they’re the ones selling the poison, behind desks and screens and gritted smiles. They tell you to be strong but laugh when you cry. Tell you to open up then mock you for being weak. This world don’t want us whole. It wants us numb. Silent. Productive. Dead inside with good grades.