Dear Diary, I Died Again
Dear diary, tomorrow’s coming, but I left myself behind,
maybe someone else will find me, or maybe I’ll just unwind–
into nothing, into digital static, lost between the days,
a name crossed out, a story closed, a breath that never stays.
If anybody cares, just know I tried, I smiled, I fucking bled–
but some of us wake up every morning, already dead.
And if you’re reading this, I’m sorry, I know it’s just pretend–
but sometimes the bravest thing I do
is promise not to end.
Dear diary, today I counted hours like pills–lined them up,
swallowed each with dread,
woke to sunlight knifing the blinds, already tired,
bones grinding in this rented bed.
Showered, dressed, wiped the mirror with my palm just to see
if anything stared back,
but the eyes I find belong to someone else–someone half here, half faded,
half cracked.
I made the coffee, burned my tongue, checked messages I’ll never answer,
typed out “I’m good” with hands that shook, went through motions,
acted like a fucking dancer.
If anyone asked, I’d say “I’m just tired”–the safest lie for the sickest days,
because nobody wants the real answer, and nobody wants to see the ways
I come undone so quietly, the slow unravel no one writes about,
no melodrama, no scars on skin, just a soul that quietly bleeds out.
Dear diary, tonight I locked the door, shut the phone inside a drawer,
sat with my memories gnawing the bones, each regret sharper than before.
I tried to list one good reason I should still be here by morning–
not for parents, lovers, God, or hope,
just one fucking reason that isn’t a warning.
But the mind is cruel when the house goes quiet,
and every thought is another riot–
of old humiliations, shit I can’t take back,
failures looping, laughter turning black.
Some days I make lists of how I might end it–razor, rope, pills,
the bath run deep,
but mostly I drift through life, a ghost wearing clothes,
so numb I barely sleep.
There’s no glory in this, no tragic art,
just monotone ache and the work of pretending,
where every morning is another chance to die again, without the drama,
without the ending.
Dear diary, I lied all week–smiled at neighbors, sent texts with hearts,
did the work, paid the rent, played the part.
No one suspects the funeral in my chest,
no one reads the silent scream behind “I’m blessed.”
I scroll through feeds and wish I could believe in tomorrow,
but hope feels counterfeit, and I only borrow
enough of it to make it to midnight,
swearing I’ll try harder, I’ll make it right.
But I’m just so tired–bone-deep, soul-rot,
and every sunrise reminds me I’m not
really living, just spinning out the lie,
writing new reasons every day not to die.
Dear diary, tonight I didn’t cut, didn’t drink,
didn’t run–just sat here breathing,
staring at the wall and praying for meaning,
wishing someone could see how heavy this ache can get,
how surviving is sometimes just an unpaid debt.
If I wake up tomorrow, I’ll play the part again,
but if I don’t, let it read:
I fought as hard as I could, and it wasn’t pretend.
Dear diary–if anyone reads this, if anyone asks–
say I died a thousand times in silence, behind a thousand masks.
And if tomorrow misses me, just let me go.
Sometimes surviving is the only wound I show.