The Final Episode

Oh my God— if only he knew that drowning doesn't look like thrashing, it looks like stillness. Like bleeding ink onto walls that won’t answer back. We could’ve saved him— or maybe he could’ve saved me. But instead, we decorate our breakdowns with blackout curtains, counting hours like they’re sins we committed in silence. He said the nights were far too long. I said this is just the start of it. Because time doesn’t tick— it scratches, it claws beneath the skin like regret in the shape of memory. My knuckles are red with poems I couldn’t write, my mouth full of screams that sound too much like apologies, like “I’m fine” muttered through broken teeth. The tainted clock is counting down faster and fast— but what’s time to a mind that loops like static, begging the signal to come back? Stand up and scream, they told me, but I only knew how to whisper through clenched fists. My voice was a razor I kept hidden in the back of my throat. The tears that stain my cheeks must make me look weak, but I wear them proud— each one a badge for battles that never made the news. Your knife, my back. My gun, your head. This is love in the language of survival. This is what trust looks like when it’s duct-taped and loaded, when intimacy tastes like copper and apologies. You need a doctor, baby? You scared? You should be— because this isn’t healing. This is remembering exactly where it hurt, and learning to limp forward anyway. If only he knew— that blood and ink are just different ways of writing a last goodbye. That sometimes your body becomes the journal no one was meant to read. That the wall I punched wasn’t just drywall— it was every empty promise, every silent scream I swallowed for the sake of peace. Oh my God— if only he knew what it costs to carry on when the weight isn't physical, when the ghosts you fight wear your own face.