They say talking to yourself is a sign of madness,
but I don’t feel mad—just lost,
swallowed whole by helplessness.
The reason I speak to myself
is because there’s no one else to hear me.
I trust no one but me,
and maybe that’s the cruel irony—
I’m the only one I can rely on,
even when I’m drowning in my own thoughts.

But do I want to keep this up?
Living in this isolation where no one truly sees me,
where my feelings are buried beneath the weight of silence?
No, I don’t.
I wish I could have someone to confide in,
someone who would understand the depth of this despair
without me having to explain.
Someone who would look into my eyes
and know I’m not okay,
who could hear the quiver in my voice
and know that I’m suffocating on the words I can't say.

Nobody believes me when I say I’m breaking,
that I feel like I’m falling apart.
They see my face,
my calm, composed exterior,
and assume all is well.
They don’t hear the storm inside me,
the silent scream I carry that no one can hear.

I shatter each time I face the mirror,
hating the face that looks back at me.
I’ve tried to smile at it,
but all I see is a stranger—
someone I no longer recognize.
I don’t know who they are,
and I don’t know where I’ve gone.

All I need is someone to listen—
to hear the anguish,
the raw cry for help that I can’t express.
But maybe the hole I’m in is so deep,
so suffocating,
that no one can reach me.