Why not me?
They are foolish, incurably so, these men who chase the heat between their legs like starving dogs in winter, slipping into madness with a grin, never pausing to ask what they’ve become. No, we are not people anymore. We are scores, digits, impressions, faint and fleeting like fingerprints on steamed glass. And I, I am the easiest one to abandon. If you didn't know, let it be known now: I am a person one leaves behind without hesitation, like a book you never meant to finish.
It is a peculiar damnation to be both seen and unseen to be imagined like a distant spring in a desert, something you swear exists, something you would bet your life on, but no matter how far you walk, no matter how blistered your feet become, you never reach it. That is what I am. A cruel illusion. Not even hope, just the shadow it casts.
How strange, that a heart full of faith should be my greatest enemy. Because it keeps believing in people, even after they vanish. And perhaps this faith is not noble at all, but a sort of stubborn illness. No one stays. No one fights. They leave. They forget. They never look back.
And I keep asking why not me?
What is it about me that fails to ignite devotion?
But I do not ask like someone seeking comfort. I ask like a woman praying into a well with no echo. I ask like a sinner who already knows her confession will not be heard. I have lost belief, not in God or mankind, but in the sanctity of my own worth. I have accepted it with the numbness of a surgeon:
I am not worth it.
Not the love. Not the war. Not the staying.
This knowledge doesn’t pierce me like a blade, it suffocates me like a room with no air.
I carry it like a coffin I cannot bury.
The world’s weight sits on my shoulders and I walk beside Atlas, but not with pride with shame. Crowds move around me and I am lonelier than when I’m alone. I remove myself from them and then mourn their absence, but what’s more tragic: being alone or being surrounded by people who wouldn’t flinch if you disappeared?
They are passive. They speak of love like it’s a script they half remember from childhood.
Words like smoke.
Affection like static.
Promises like chalk in the rain.
They say they love you but they love the idea of you, not the ache of your reality.
They say they’ll stay but they run the moment your grief becomes inconvenient.
And the cruelest?
The ones who stayed long enough to make you believe.
Who made your bones tremble with the idea of permanence, only to disappear in silence, like ghosts ashamed of being seen.
They make you feel like nothing happened at all.
Like your pain was a dream and they woke up.
And when that happens you stop. You stop trying. You stop hoping. You begin to understand death not as a moment, but as a way of being.
Have you ever walked a dark alleyway and wished not feared, but truly, longed for someone to end it?
Not because you hate life, but because you no longer see your place in it?
Have you ever imagined vanishing not tragically, not beautifully just quietly, like a curtain falling at the end of a forgotten play?
I have.
But I write, because to stay silent would be to rot.
I write not because I expect to be heard, but because pain must take form or it festers.
I do not want a cure.
I want a language for my collapse.
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