I shout a cry

I’m listening to music. What else can I do? At this moment, in this mood. I can’t read anymore. I can’t see anything. I refuse to call it depression or sorrow—anything that might make me sound weak or foolish. I know I am already self-indulgent, but if you want to call me a drama queen, then so be it. I won’t deny it, nor will I stop. If that’s how you see me, then that is how it is.

What can I do? I can’t change you, just as I won’t change myself.

I have anger inside me. A devil within. But, in truth, I don’t know what resides within me. Sometimes, it emerges as anger; at other times, it erupts as sorrow. I have spent so long trying to define this monster—this version of me that lurks inside. It is desperate to consume every part of you until there is nothing left. It must possess all of you, uncovering the abyss beneath your heart, the one you don’t even know exists. But it tells me that I must never reveal this desire to you—because it is the ugliest and most unlovable flaw. Instead, I must suffer through every moment in which I cannot have you.

So, I leave—before my desire overcomes me. I run before anything even begins. Every time. Like a coward. Before my greatest fear materialises. Before I destroy someone I love with this horror, the same horror that has tormented me for so long.

Ask me to explain everything I have done.
Torture me for everything I did not do.
Criticise what I longed to attempt.
Tell me I deserve nothing.

All I wanted was a hug—to hear someone say everything is fine.
All I wanted was for someone to hold my hand—to tell me they liked my naivety.
All I wanted was a simple, silly smile—to know that I had you.

Instead,
I scream in silence.