For a long time, I believed in something called hope.
People say it’s the light at the end of the tunnel.
Some brands it as a miracle.
But hope is what delays the pain, drawing it out like a syringe thrust into your veins and sucking your lifeblood out like it was juice.
Hope doesn’t get you out when your head’s stuck in a hole and you’re staring at eyes so merciless, so full of hatred that when you scream, it’s the last thing you’ll ever hear.
Hope doesn’t washes away the despair you feel when you’re trying to claw yourself out of a well full of dead things.
Hope doesn’t cleanse you of the blood that drips off your skin; doesn’t cleanse the dead, horrible things you’ve seen.
Hope tears you apart the moment it worms into your heart.
Why wait for something instead of letting it go?
Why bother torturing yourself with knives when you can just. End. It.
Hope never solves anything.
Because hope isn’t real.