The Quiet Screaming of Paper Walls

What I’ve created isn’t something beautiful.
It’s not joy. It’s not clarity,
Not even a small flicker of light.
It’s more like a trembling archive,
Full of things I never had the nerve to say out loud.
Not because I didn’t want to,
But because the words always came out wrong—
Or never came at all.

It’s like a museum built from regret.
Every wall is paper-thin,
Made from old, whispering pages—
Words written in some language
That once made sense to me
But now just floats somewhere out of reach.
Maybe I forgot it on purpose.
Maybe it forgot me.

Every page I touch sighs back at me.
Every sentence feels like glass cracking under pressure.
What I’ve made isn’t strong.
It’s not confident or certain.
It’s delicate. Nervous. Shaking all the time,
As if afraid someone might look too closely.

In the darker corners of my mind,
The ones the sun never touches,
I’ve built entire rooms
Out of old memories.
The kind you don’t tell anyone about.
Each one is sealed shut,
Locked from the inside,
But if you listen close enough,
You can still hear the screaming—
Ink trying to turn itself back into sound.

What I’ve made tastes like guilt.
Not just any guilt—
The kind that sits on your tongue
Like milk that’s gone bad.
The kind that rots slow.
I’ve swallowed my dignity so many times,
There’s nothing left of it now but ashes.
I burned it down without even knowing why.

I’ve held a pen
Like it was a blade.
I didn’t write—I carved.
I sliced through every soft thing in me.
Let the ink bleed out,
And called it poetry.

Is it history I’ve made?
I guess, in a way, it is.
But it’s not clean.
It’s messy and broken.
It’s made from moments I’d never bring up at dinner.
It’s stitched together with lies I told myself
Just to keep going.
Threaded with shadow-versions of who I might have been—
If love had been kinder.
If silence hadn’t learned to bite.

What I’ve made doesn’t bring peace.
It brings anxiety.
It coils around me like a spiral,
Getting tighter and tighter
With every single memory that comes back
Whether I ask for it or not.

Even now, these pages twitch when no one’s looking.
They hum with energy in the dark.
They whisper:
Do you even know who you are anymore?
Are you writing the truth,
Or are you just bleeding again?

So I ask myself, over and over:
Did I write down history?
Or did I just capture
The bitter taste left over
From all those nights I spent alone?

What I’ve made is a body,
But not one made of flesh and blood.
It’s a body built from words,
And it won’t stop shaking.
It trembles like it’s cold,
Even when it’s burning.

My mind?
Call it schizoaffective.
Undefined. Not easily boxed in.
It shifts, it stretches, it shouts.
It’s a storm I live inside every day.
Loud and persistent.
Always demanding to be heard.

I know I’m responsible.
I’m not running from that.
I’m guilty—not for what I wrote,
But for turning something beautiful
Into something sharp,
Something I could use to point fingers—
Mostly at myself.

Even beauty can rot.
Even the prettiest things
Can turn dangerous
When you hold onto them too long.

What I’ve made is a monument—
But not to who I am now.
It’s to someone I used to be.
Someone I lost along the way.
But every time I sit down to write,
They come back,
Breathing through the ink.

Yes, I’ve created spirals.
Yes, I’ve spun myself into confusion.
But I’ve written prayers too—
Twisted ones. Cracked.
Prayers that limp instead of fly.
But still, they reach up.
Still, they try.

I’m surrounded by spoiled accord—
By things that once fit but don’t anymore.
But here I am,
Sitting at the center of all of it,
Still putting words on the page,
Still asking the same questions:
Still searching for something
I might never find.

What I’ve done is already behind me.
It’s in the past,
Etched into paper.
But who I’m becoming?
That part’s still happening.
And maybe that’s what all this was for.