I don’t sleep…
I fall into it—
like a trapdoor giving out beneath my ribs,
like the floor said “fuck you”
and disappeared mid-breath.
And every night—
it’s the same damn script,
just a different knife.
I watch my friends fade out like bad reception,
voices glitching,
faces buffering into nothing—
I’m screaming,
but it comes out like static confession.
“Wait—don’t go—”
but they always do.
They always do.
And I’m left holding ghosts
that still feel warm in my hands,
like memory’s playing a cruel little trick—
like love didn’t get the memo
that it’s already dead.
Then it flips—
like a switchblade in my spine—
Now I’m back in that place,
yeah, that place,
where my veins are just highways
and every road leads to escape.
I swear I can feel it—
the burn,
the flood,
the poison dressed up like a hug.
I’m relapsing in dreams
on drugs I don’t even fucking want,
but my hands move anyway
like they remember better than I do.
Like my body’s a traitor
with a favorite disaster.
And I’m yelling—
“I quit this, I did, I fucking did—”
but the nightmare just laughs,
low and sick,
like it’s got proof I never really left.
And maybe that’s the part
that tears the deepest—
Not the using…
not the losing…
but the feeling
that it’s already chosen.
Like no matter how far I run
there’s a version of me
still kneeling
in the wreckage
begging for numb.
Then I wake up—
Gasping like I just clawed my way
out of a grave I was buried in twice,
sheets twisted like they tried to strangle me quiet,
heart punching my ribs like
“you didn’t survive—
you just got a break.”
And I sit there—
in the dark,
counting what’s real.
Friends?
Still here… I think.
My body?
Still clean… I hope.
But the fear—
the fear sticks like smoke in my lungs,
like even awake
I’m breathing it in slow.
Because nightmares like these
don’t end when you open your eyes—
They linger.
They whisper.
They wait for the next time you close them.
And the cruelest part?
It’s not that they haunt me—
it’s that somewhere deep down…
I’m terrified
they’re trying to warn me.