No one Knows

I am but am not lonely.

I have no regret but I feel guilty.

I don’t romanticize suicide, but it wonders into my mind like love.
I only wish for company, but kind people are who I push away.

I don’t mind invasion, I’ve come to feel like privacy is instead dishonesty.
I don’t need to eat as long as my imagination distracts me.

I’ll let myself fall apart as a petty attempt to show others I can be strong.
I’ll hold my hand out to both help and hurt.

Yet despite losing myself in a lie I’ve created for myself, for the sake of a dimly lit sanity...

Joy and sorrow are much the same.

A floating feeling because it seems so unreal.

Being submerged in water is just as suffocating as being held above the sky.

I think I’m content, but I know that I’m not happy.
When silence, and hurt, and struggle become a normal, it’s not a matter of it being easier to hide... It becomes something that hides from you yourself.

When you no longer see a bruise as a bad thing but as pretty mark on your now life owned canvas skin.
Everyone goes through pain, but does anyone know what’s the normal amount?

I don’t know, and I hardly doubt you do either.