Killing Thoughts

Killing Thoughts

Killing thoughts crawl the edges of the mind.

Silent, patient, they wait.

They do not shout, they do not strike at once.

They coil, they twist,

you feel their weight before you see them.

I feel them pressing behind my eyes,

sliding into corners where reason hides,

turning memory into knives,

turning hope into smoke.

They whisper names,

reveal fears I cannot speak,

remind me of every time I stumbled

and every shadow that followed.

They are not kind.

They do not pause.

They circle in silence,

pressing into every thought,

breaking every pause,

pushing until the edges bleed.

The world becomes smaller.

Walls close in.

Rooms twist and tremble.

Even the air feels heavy,

as if it knows the weight I carry.

Each breath is a battle

against the pull of what waits unseen.

Killing thoughts take what they need.

They hide in quiet moments,

in laughter, in sleep,

turning both into mirrors

where I see only what I fear.

They do not sleep.

They do not forgive.

They only wait, always waiting,

until you cannot distinguish

your hand from their grip,

your voice from their whisper.

I move through them carefully.

Hands out, eyes open,

but they are everywhere,

slipping through cracks,

pressing edges of mind and bone.

They are old,

older than reason,

and they do not tire.

Even in the light,

they linger.

They mark what I touch,

what I think,

what I almost let go of.

And I know,

the only way to survive

is to carry them,

to bend under them,

to pretend they are not killing me

while they gnaw at who I am.

Killing thoughts do not end.

They do not ask permission.

They are patient,

hungry,

and in their silence,

I hear the slow echo

of every mind that‘s been broken,

and I know

they will not leave me,

not ever.