I’ve found that even in love, there’s always a shadow of hate—silent but persistent. No matter how warm the love feels, there’s a part of me that burns with something darker, ready to consume everything.
Behind my laughter, there are tears that never really dry. Every laugh echoes with cries no one else can hear. Happiness, it seems, is just a mask I wear over the ache inside.
Even in moments of peace, there’s chaos whispering in the background. Every silence feels like a muted scream, pulling me closer to the edge. It’s as if calmness is only the calm before a storm.
And in the winter of my soul, I never found a summer. Only an endless, bone-deep cold that grows heavier the longer I endure it. Warmth isn’t real—it’s just a lie that fades before it can take root.
This doesn’t comfort me; it unsettles me. It shows me that no matter how much the world tries to bring me peace, there’s something darker, stronger inside me. Something that burns, destroys, and turns every light into shadow.