Self Destruction

I don’t destroy myself loudly.

There are no explosions,

no dramatic exits.

Just a slow erosion—

choice by choice,

silence by silence.

I wear it like a habit.

Like something familiar

I reach for when I don’t know

what else to do with my hands.

Old patterns feel safer

than unfamiliar hope.

I sabotage gently.

Miss the calls that might save me.

Stay where I know I’ll be hurt

because at least it’s predictable.

Pain I recognize

feels easier than healing

I don’t trust.

I tell myself I’m in control.

That I could stop anytime.

That this isn’t destruction,

it’s coping.

But the mirror keeps count

of what I’m losing

even when I refuse to.

Some days it looks like recklessness.

Other days it looks like discipline—

like denying myself rest,

joy, softness,

as if I haven’t earned them yet.

That’s the trick of it.

Self-destruction doesn’t always beg.

Sometimes it convinces you

you deserve the damage.

I don’t hate myself—

that’s the lie people expect.

I just don’t know

how to be gentle

without feeling exposed.

So I choose what hurts

before something else can.

And still, somewhere under the ruin,

there’s a part of me

that notices the harm,

that flinches,

that wants out.

That part is quiet.

But it’s not gone.