You Don’t Know My Hell. You see the surface. You see the mask I let you see. But you don’t see the wars I fight behind closed doors. You don’t see the nights where sleep is a stranger, and the only thing keeping me breathing is rage and spite. You talk like you know pain. But you don’t know my hell. You don’t know what it’s like to carry demons in your chest and wear a smile for the world. You don’t know what it’s like to scream inside your head every day and still have to act like you’re okay. So don’t tell me how to heal. Don’t tell me how to feel. Don’t tell me to be stronger. Because I’m already stronger than you’ll ever understand. I crawled out of a pit you wouldn’t survive a day in. I stood up when everything in me told me to stay down. You don’t know my hell. And you never will.
