The Sour Made Sweet

I’ve grown addicted to this sadness,
Stuck in a game of suffering I’ve convinced myself I win just by playing.
It’s the only control I have left,
A prize that lets me say, “I told you so,” to an empty room.
Winning never felt so hollow on this podium of one—
When did the happiness I crave become repulsive to my spirit?
Handicapped, unable to truly enjoy anything,
My soul seeks the dark so that when light fades, I’ve already hidden in shadow.
Daywalker, I am not.
Survival is for the living,
But not for me.
Purpose and drive have been slain.
I’ve been a prisoner of war too long.
Indeed, misery has become my master,
And I willingly serve in its shackles.

I’ve grown addicted to this sadness,
The scapegoat of excuses for my inaction,
Removing ownership of my situation
And all the ways I’ve been wronged.
Clinging to the past with memories I’ve replayed so many times they’ve twisted to suit my narrative.
Life is cruel,
And I am bitter.
This darkness is my domain,
And the truth is what I say it is.
Don’t you see that I'm the victim here?
Don’t you dare try to shame me.
These self-inflicted wounds hurt more than your disappointment ever could—
A shield that cuts into my palms as I struggle to lift it day after day.
This burden is my cross to bear,
My identity, its carpenter.

I’ve grown addicted to this sadness.
Don’t you hear me crying out for help?
Calls of silence with the speaker on mute
Are all I’ve ever known.
My heart pleads for assistance,
But my voice has been placed under lock and key, stolen
By ego and this facade of strength I must maintain.
They say no one fights for you like you,
But if I open the gates and the battle is lost,
Then I will truly be alone,
A pillaged heart with nothing left for me—
I could not bear it.
Hope has stood me up one too many times,
And I don’t have the strength to try again.
Instead, let me retreat into my loathing,
Where reason and logic have no place.
Judging everyone else around me,
Imagining I could do better in their situation,
For I am the blueprint of how life should be lived.
Delusion has allowed me to justify anything with ease.
In a reality where suffering is a virtue,
I have chained myself to the mast of this sinking ship,
Falsehood its name,
The bow bearing the adage to which I am resigned:
Change will come for those who withstand their storm.

…It has to.