You liked me. You liked how I rose above my struggles. You liked that I never let poverty come in the way of doing what I love. You liked my dreams. And I liked you. All of you. Even the parts that couldn't love. Your touch stained my skin, your existence my breath. I struggled to breathe — a rare occasion where I wanted to — for with every breath, I tripped on the familiarity of you. The exact same air of familiarity that choked me.

I can't let you in. It's dark inside. Trite as it sounds, I can't let my awful thoughts taint your beautiful soul. You don't understand. When I am the light, I am easy to love. I'm a good listening ear, I laugh heartily, I run around, I'm affable and gregarious, I eat a lot. When the switch turns off, I grapple with my issues. Suicide attempts. Eating disorders. BPD. But come what may, I took life in my stride. I always dealt with my issues my own way, and I survived 21 years somehow.

But I'm still a victim of my twisted mind, and I will die suffocated by my thoughts. I never intended to let anyone stay because I know I will die by my hands someday. I can't hurt those who love me. I don't talk anymore because I don't need anyone. The same way no one needs me in their lives. I am fine on my own.

Humans are the most adaptive spices? Bullshit. Have you met the demons that torment me? I tried to drown my demons with liquor, only to find that they have freaking learnt to swim. I joustled and I hustled yet with just a yank, they drew me over. I'm hell bound; it gets darker each time I blink. We're on the same sides, my demons and me.

It's woven in my soul — I am my demon now.