Poem

It calls to me with quiet teeth, a grin beneath, a rot beneath. Not screaming loud, but soft and slow, it asks me where I'd like to go.

The world is gray, then black, then gone — the colors drained, the meaning drawn. No hands reach out, no voices stay, just me, and thought, and slow decay.

It's not a cry for someone's grace, but a wish to leave no trace. No grand farewell, no final note — just silence swelling in the throat.

The mirror cracks, the walls confess, I am a room of emptiness. Each breath a chore, each day a bruise, each waking hour a war I lose.

The thought is sharp, a scared blade, a promise made when light has strayed. It whispers truths too dark to name, and no one would know, and none to blame.

There's comfort in the drop, the fall, in letting go of it all. No Heaven waits, no Hell beneath — just silence deep, and death... And peace.