Euphoria drowned in a sea of despair,

Anguish, the undercurrent pulling me

, Resentment, the depths where I gasp for air.

The English language, a vessel of my tears,

each word is a drop of sorrow on my soul,

A canvas smeared with the hues of pain,

A story dark, a silent scream untold.

Betrayal, a venom, bitter on my tongue,

A stain of distrust, lingering and vile,

while abuse whispers secrets to the moon,

A testament to a life torn apart, and you, dear heart,

your rugged edges are etched like letters,

inscribed upon the tombstone of my pain,

A silent witness to my fractured existence

, A canvas painted with shades of grief

Anguish is the only current that carries me.

Days without sleep, my mind a tempest I become my own bully, relentless and cruel, A playground where scars bloom, a twisted duel.

“Fatty, you’re getting old,” Your all bones taunts persist, No one loves you, they insist, a venomous twist. Yet as my head touches the pillow’s embrace, A sigh of relief—though not mine—fills the space.

From underneath, silent laughter unfolds. My mind is a labyrinth of shadows and pearls. Are these tricks, or demons clawing at my core? Nails on a chalkboard, my restless soul’s uproar. In my own darkness, I seek solace, in vain, Even rest eludes me—a relentless refrain.

yet I pretend my hourglass is full, a deceptive gift.

Minutes, hours, days—weeks blur into years, tic-tock, missing games, school plays, and cheers. Even birthdays slip away,

like sand through cracks, Who am I to deprive them of a mother’s tracks?

“You’re selfish,” the inner voice accuses, Or perhaps I lack remorse.

Wet pillows greet me at dawn’s cruel light, demons as bedfellows, relentless in their

fight. Drained and conquered, I admit defeat, Their whispers echo, relentless and discreet.

I miss the little giggles, those tiny feet, Dancing on hardwood floors, a melody sweet. innocent eyes, trusting and wide, yet I, their guardian, make them cry.

Am I an empty vessel, devoid of soul? I was supposed to protect them, yet I’ve lost control. The home I guard feels fragile, worn, as time slips through my desperate fingers.

Life's cruel setup, a rigged game, Played me, spun me in his web of deceit. He was A beacon of light, an ember of hope, Igniting my veins with life.

 His laughter—a twisted symphony, He wore a mask of charm, wrapped evil in silk, adorned it with laughter a velvet touch, Smooth words that dripped like honey, Cloaked in pretty lies, seductive whispers, feeding on my trust.

You chewed the little bit innocence I had left, and spat out my dreams, Leaving me hollow, a vessel. I sought love—naive, relentless— But he, the architect of my undoing, His tongue—the weapon of a master, Twisting facts, spinning illusions,

 A magician of half-truths and false vows, Leaving me lost, gasping for clarity. And control—he craved it like oxygen, His own self-reference the highest law, Ignoring feedback, rejecting accountability, A puppeteer pulling my strings, my autonomy. 

He played on my sympathies, Demanding mercy while giving none, Warmth, forgiveness, intimacy—his demands! I’ve lingered in those same worn-out rooms. , Faces morphing, years blending, Yet the script remains unchanged.

 How long can one sit with darkness? It seeps through the cracks, insidious, Like glue binding fractured pieces, A slow erosion of virtue, a corrosion of soul. You can’t toy with darkness and emerge unscathed. It stains your marrow, twists your compass, And when you see it— though it may look appealing, don't be fooled by its outward appearance.