Slow Motion Confession I’ve got nothing new. Same wound, same rot. Different names, same plot. Two weeks feel like years. But time doesn’t heal it circles back with receipts. I can’t cry, I can’t scream, I just exist in lowercase Fuck it. I’ll keep bleeding in silence. Fuck it. I’ll dress up my violence. Fuck it. This isn’t healing this is hibernation. A frozen confession no one asked for. Fuck it. I won’t pretend. Fuck it. This isn’t the end but maybe it should be. Maybe this is all the confession I’ve got left I wish I had poetry. Or metaphors. Or lyrics. But all I have is bile in my chest and silence that stinks. I open this diary like a wound, but even pain needs novelty and mine is outdated. I’m not the star. I’m the blackout between scenes. Fuck it. I’ll keep bleeding in silence. Fuck it. I’ll dress up my violence. Fuck it. This isn’t healing this is hibernation. A frozen confession no one asked for. Fuck it. I won’t pretend. Fuck it. This isn’t the end but maybe it should be. Maybe this is all the confession I’ve got left. I could list every reason why I shouldn’t feel like this. I could name blessings, and draw hearts beside them. But none of it stops this internal static from getting louder. Don’t ask me how I’m doing. I’m surviving. And sometimes, that’s not a win. Fuck it. I’ll keep bleeding in silence. Fuck it. I’ll dress up my violence. Fuck it. This isn’t healing this is hibernation. A frozen confession no one asked for. Fuck it. I won’t pretend. Fuck it. This isn’t the end but maybe it should be. Maybe this is all the confession I’ve got left.
