Brie Nicole Inked

How am I supposed to explain it? How do I even begin to explain the way my own mind turns against me? How it twists every thought until the only thing I hear, over and over, louder than anything else, is you’re useless? How am I supposed to walk around pretending I’m okay when every piece of me is screaming that I’m not?

I try. Every single day I try to see the positives. I try to see whatever it is other people swear they see in me. The things they say like they’re obvious. Like they’re real.

But I don’t see it. I never will. Because people say words. They say nice things. Reassuring things. But that’s not what their actions show. That’s not what slips through the cracks between those words. Those quiet little signals. The whispers that say what they won’t admit out loud.

You’re not enough.

It’s in the pauses. The subtle shifts. The way things are just slightly different than they used to be. Things weren’t supposed to change. But somehow they always do.

Don’t get too attached.

And then slowly, so slowly it almost feels imaginary, you feel them pulling away. Not enough to admit it. Not enough to confront it. Just enough that you feel it in your chest.

But no, nothing changed.
We’re still friends.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.

So how am I supposed to believe that?

How am I supposed to trust anything when everything is constantly shifting? The mood changes. The temperature changes. The way someone looks at you changes.

But don’t worry. Nothing changed.
Meanwhile I’m drowning.

My mind lies to me.
My heart lies to me.
And reality sits there like a brutal slap across the face.

Not a physical one. But it lands just as hard as the hands that should have never hurt me in the first place. Hands that promised protection. Hands that promised partnership. Hands that said they would never be the ones to cause pain.

Those hands lied too.

So how do I trust anything anyone says ever again?

When actions never match the words. When I see the shift even if no one will admit it’s there. When the truth lives in the silence between sentences.

And what’s the point of even asking about it?
What’s the point of calling it out when the answer will never be the truth anyway?

So instead I sit here. Quietly.
Drowning.
Wondering.
Suffocating inside my own head.

Because what is the point?
No one ever has an answer for that. Not a real one.
And I can’t see it anymore.
So what does any of it even matter…