DELUSIONAL.LOG

don’t call it brave, don’t call it grace, it’s scars behind a resting face. been holding on for far too long, with meds and hope both tasting wrong. i take these pills to quiet storms, to fit inside your calmer norms. but some days still, it stings like shame— and i forget my real name. i smile less now, but still exist. i’m made of cracks and stubborn fists. don’t need your praise, don’t need your plan— i just need space to be what I am. this isn’t weakness. this is fight. this glitch, this spiral, this long night— and I won’t make it pretty just to make it right.

they pass me pills with quiet hands, assume i sleep, assume i stand. they chart my calm, they note “no pain,” while storms keep screaming in my brain. my eyes stay closed, my breath stays slow, but underneath, i always know— this peace they praise, this numbed-out state, it isn’t healing. it’s sedate. i nod and thank them, play the role, but keep the fire in control. they say i’m better, fixed, contained... they don’t know i’m still awake. unchained.

they say i’m sick, that much is clear, but still the shadows linger near. i hide away, the blinds are drawn, my nights stretch out, they blur past dawn. the meds, they buzz beneath my skin, a venom wrapped in discipline. and when i miss a dose or two, the voices tell me what to do. they talk like gods, like static screams, they steal my breath, infect my dreams. but through the noise, i try to write— my truth, my rage, my fear, my fight.