How I Wreck It
I’ve always had this thing where I wreck myself. Other people chase happiness—money, love, freedom—and sometimes they find it. Me, I seem built for destruction. Give me two paths and I’ll take the one that burns everything down.
My mind goes somewhere beyond right and wrong. I drown myself in false pride and priorities that don’t make sense, grievances I’ve completely invented. Everything narrows to me, to what I’m owed, who owes me obedience. Anyone who refuses gets hurt in ways they’ve never imagined. I wind myself tighter and tighter.
Within minutes I’ve become a live wire. The person who got close enough to notice—and they’re always good, always trying—becomes the target. I can’t handle that kind of goodness because I’m broken in a way that only sees the bad. When there’s nothing bad to find, I get restless and make it up. Then I become this thing: spitting, wild, no boundaries, no mercy, no sense.
I distort facts and cling to ideas that crumble the moment I speak them. Then I start swinging. Everything vicious and dishonest I can throw. The voice inside telling me I’m insane, the one I can almost hear—I drown it. I’m god and you don’t get a say.
One moment of clarity could stop it. Just shut up. Just nod. Just break. But every word reads as a challenge and I can’t quit. I’m burning, fever-pitch, now I’m ugly about it. Now I just want to wound.
I fire off lies dressed as truth, each one forged in whatever twisted logic is running my brain. Trying to put myself at the center of everything when I’m background noise at best. I don’t think about consequences, the future, the bridges I’m burning. The voice that tried to save me—I’ve killed it. Out of me comes lightning, pure chaos. The person in front of me, the one who actually wanted what’s best, is holding my arm with wet eyes and I pull away. I say something worse. Everything goes black and quiet.
I come out of it on a wasteland. Empty, destroyed. The victory of choosing wrong again—it’s a frozen place where I’m just alone. The demons are gone. Now there’s only regret, and regret doesn’t fix anything. Nobody comes back from what I’ve done. So I get up, dust myself off, and keep moving with one hope: that next time I’ll make the choice that doesn’t turn me into this version of myself. That I’ll actually know how to want what I have.