
Griever
SN
- May 1, 2025
- 437
It's strange, how pain can become a comfort. How the sting beneath the skin can quiet the chaos in my mind. It isn't about wanting to die - it's about needing to feel something I can control. Something sharp, something real. The burn, the ache - it grounds me, and in that moment, I breathe again.
But then it becomes a cycle. Not relief. Not release. Just a craving. Like a drug I never meant to take, but now I can't live without. I promise myself every time, never again. But the silence creeps in, and the only thing louder than the loneliness is the desire to make it stop.
I hate that I find comfort in hurting myself. I hate that it feels like the only way to keep from drowning. And yet, I keep going back. I keep chasing that moment of stillness, even though I know it never lasts.
But then it becomes a cycle. Not relief. Not release. Just a craving. Like a drug I never meant to take, but now I can't live without. I promise myself every time, never again. But the silence creeps in, and the only thing louder than the loneliness is the desire to make it stop.
I hate that I find comfort in hurting myself. I hate that it feels like the only way to keep from drowning. And yet, I keep going back. I keep chasing that moment of stillness, even though I know it never lasts.