Some nights don't end. They stretch out

as far as they can until the light's too narrow

and the blood's too shallow to pass through.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling,

waiting for some kind of sign, but all you get

is the low hum of the fridge and the echo

of your thoughts, his face, a wilted hydrangea.

Your skin itches for release,

fingers tracing old scars like roadmaps,

the stretch mark where he traced "mine" in

his sleep, red lines banging against your eyes.

The hum of the fridge turns into a scream,

and you press harder, like you're trying to find where

the pain hides, buried deep under all that numb.

His face flashes again, like a ghost you can't shake,

and the blood comes slow, spilling the confessions

that you always wanted to wash away in the sink.

It feels real, just for a second,

The blade biting deep, leaving a searing line of fire,

parting your skin like paper, a river of red lines and

thick silence, ghosts that just don't leave your side.

The red blooms, spreading out fast, 

pouring out like something desperate to escape.

It stains everything in its path, your skin, your soul,

a sick satisfaction in the way it spills,

warm against your trembling hands, reminding

you that you're alive when you don't want to be.

The room's a coffin of light and shadows, the walls

close in, and all you hear is the pulse in your ears,

hammering like a death march, daring you to go deeper.

You press harder, the pain sharp, electric, and this time

you can't look away, can't stop the urge to slice deeper.

For a second, it's all you know,

all that matters, that red line tracing across your skin,

a lifeline that's fraying by the second.

And now the blood runs black, thick with dead

brain matter, decayed thoughts, seeping out slow.

It reeks of all the things you've buried, marinated

in stale weed smoke and the memory of him,

of his hands that lingered too long, that touched

you like you were nothing but skin and silence.

His tainted fingers dragged across your face, smearing

ashes—his past, his filth, and every girl he laid his hands on.

You taste the blackness in your mouth,

it clogs your throat, suffocates you from the inside out.

Everything is drowning in it—the air, your lungs, the ghosts

that feel like they're banging your head against the wall.

It's so dark you can't even scream,

so thick you can't breathe, and all you want

is for the blackness to consume you whole,

to choke out every last shred of light.

Some nights don't end. They stretch out like a slow rip,

tearing you apart at the seams, splitting you open

so everything inside spills out, but no one sees it.

The ghosts settle on the cold side of the bed, while

the windows slam shut louder than they should.

But no one hears it—not the neighbors, not the

therapist who nods too much, not even the friend who calls at

8, every damn day, with their small talk and hollow check-ins.

Not even the bird that died under your window last night.

It's just you now, alone with the waves,

each black tide crashing harder than the last,

pounding you down until you're nothing

but a hollowed-out shell, flaking apart piece by piece,

worn thin from the hits you keep taking,

and no one hears the sound of you breaking.

* * * 

A/N: Mental health is real as hell, and it's something we all deal with whether we admit it or not. The thing is, we've been trained to stay quiet, act like we're fine when we're barely holding it together. But screw that. We need to start talking about it out loud, because there's no shame in feeling messed up or struggling. We're human. So I wrote this poem to cut through the silence and be real about what it's like to deal with this stuff. If you've been there, this one's for you.

The truth is, life can be brutal, and it messes with us in ways we can't always handle on our own. But admitting that, saying "I'm not okay," takes guts. It's not weakness—it's courage. It means you're real enough to face it head-on, instead of pretending everything's fine when it's not.

We need to stop pretending that struggling with your mental health is something to hide. Everyone's going through something. You're not less of a person because you're feeling overwhelmed or drowning. What really matters is how you deal with it—and sometimes that means talking about it, reaching out, getting help, whatever it takes.

So, stop worrying about the stigma, about being judged, about seeming "tough." Screw that noise. The strongest thing you can do is be real. Real with yourself, real with others. You don't have to fight your battles in silence.

We're all in this mess together, so speak up. Normalize it. Normalize talking about your mental health because we all have our days. You're not alone, and there's zero shame in that.

Affectionately, (and always rooting for you)

Sreeja.