Fatal

Everyone thinks I’m happy, but I’m dying.

It’s bad. It’s getting bad again.

I’m getting really, really, really, bad again.

My thoughts are killing me. Every time I arrive back to my place, all I do is sleep because that’s the only time I don’t overthink things. I am stressed, restless—not entirely because of the load of things I have to do, but because each passing day I could feel me losing and subconsciously destroying pieces of myself. I’m becoming more hollow and empty. I don’t know what’s happening inside me anymore. My soul is disintegrating, I’m shattering into fragments.

I want everything to pause. Or stop. Because the world inside me is crashing down. Does no one hear it? Does no one see it? Everything inside me has gone berserk and I’m screaming and crying and dying, but nobody sees me. Nobody hears me. Most times I don’t want to wake up anymore because whenever I do, the only thing I do is cry, and marvel at the realization of my own trifling existence in the entirety of this whole wide world.

And I’m afraid to tell people how bad this has become because I know there is nothing they can do about it. I’m only going to burden them because I know there is no proper response to this. I don’t want to be a burden. I am not a burden.

But I am dying. I’m dying. I’m dying.

Everyone thinks I’m happy but I’m dying

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