I wish everything would just end right now.

I wish everything would just end right now. At this moment. I wish this. I pray this. I beg this. I hope this. I write this. I ache this. This animal inside me has decapitated my will to "somehow still go on" that I had meticulously and desperately conjured up from the ruins of all my other breakdowns. It tore through the fragile scaffolding I had built with late-night poems, unsent messages, and half-meant affirmations. It laughed in the face of my progress, spat on my healing, and left me: bleeding, breathless, bewildered. There’s a ringing in my ears again. A silence so loud it scrapes at the back of my skull. I feel like I am drowning in my own body. Not water. Not thoughts. Just the heaviness of being. If I could unzip this skin, if I could silence this mind, if I could stop this heart from always hoping when it knows better… I would. Tonight, I am just a prayer that won’t be answered. I whisper into the dark like it’s a god. Like maybe it’s listening. But the dark doesn’t answer. It never does. It only presses itself closer to me, like a lover who doesn’t love back. I keep blinking, not out of fatigue but out of hope that when I open my eyes again, I will be somewhere else.

Nowhere. Anything but here. My chest feels like a locked room where something is screaming behind the walls: something ancient, something breaking its own throat trying to be heard. I am tired of being alive with an asterisk. Alive, but unraveling. Alive, but begging for pause. Alive, but not wanting to be. I try to name what hurts, but there is no language for this. Only metaphors. Only howling. It’s not sadness. It’s not grief. It’s not even despair. It’s erosion. It’s a soul that has been weathered down to pulp. It’s a scream that has grown so old, it has learned how to sit still. I don't want comfort. I don't want to be told "it will pass." I want this to end. I want me to end. Or maybe not end. Just disappear. Melt into the air like fog and never reassemble. I want to be unreadable. Untouched. Unremembered. I want to stop being a burden made of skin. I don’t know if this is a cry for help. I think it’s just a cry. Maybe, a cry for an end. A full stop. Help implies something can be done. This... This is beyond rescue. This is the quiet crumpling of something that was never really whole. And still. And still. I breathe. Why?

Please. Whoever, whatever, if anything listens... please. End it. End me. I am not asking anymore. I am not praying. I am begging. On mental knees. With my soul in my hands, bleeding through the cracks of my fingers. Please: do what I cannot. Finish what I cannot. Take this body off my back. Take this mind, this cruel, looping, echo chamber that feeds on its own decay. Take this constant throb of being awake in a life I did not consent to. I scream in silence so it won’t scare anyone. I cry with my spine so no one hears it. I am so polite in my suffering, and I don’t know why. Why am I trying to be graceful when I’m dying on the inside every goddamn day? There is no poetry left in this. No beauty. No tragic allure. It’s just exhaustion so complete it has turned into a static hum across everything. I keep waiting for someone, some force, some cosmic mercy, to finally notice me. To finally say, “Okay. That’s enough. You can go now.” But no one comes. No one ever does. The universe has ghosted me. Even death won’t answer my texts. And I don’t have the courage to do it myself. I am too much of a coward to leave. And too broken to stay. So what is this in-between? What do you call this purgatory of the living? Do you hear me? Whoever you are; god, void, fate, accident: I am done. Please. Please. Please. Unmake me.

No one is coming. I know this. I’ve always known. There is no divine ear bent toward me. No fate circling my name with concern. No shadowy mercy slipping through the cracks of this night to grant me release. Nothing will stop this. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever. The sun will rise, like it always does. It will crawl over my windowsill, indifferent, steady and peel the night off me like an unwanted second skin. It will urge me to get up. Put on my face. Move my limbs. Pretend. Again. And I will. Because I always do. Because I am too afraid not to. But right now... This night, this moment, this silence that presses like a hand over my mouth. It seduces me. It tells me I can break here. Fully. Quietly. Without consequence. It whispers that I can disassemble myself, limb by limb, thought by thought, and scatter the pieces across this bed like a ritual no one will ever witness. It tells me to stop trying. To stop pretending there’s light at the end of anything. And so I lie still, letting it hold me. Letting the ache touch bone. Letting the despair seep into the last dry parts of me that still hoped. I daydream, not of better things, not of healing but of letting go. Completely. No fight. No drama. No blood. Just… silence. A vanishing. And maybe that’s the closest I’ll ever get. To peace. To nothing. To rest. But the clock ticks. And I know the sun is coming. And I know I will rise. But not because I want to. Only because the world refuses to let me stay gone. And maybe... maybe that’s the real cruelty.

But, I wish everything would just end right now. At this moment. I wish this. I pray this. I beg this. I hope this. I write this. I ache this. (Can I do this...?)

- Oizys.