Fed up on a random Monday

 Hey, it’s me again, with the sudden urge to change my life and cut everyone off.

People really are too much, and I’m beginning to question whether I even belong to this species, this era, this world.

Why is it so easy to lie? Why is it so easy to hurt others? And why are there no consequences?
Because I’m an empath—that’s why. I’ve convinced myself that I understand, and I do, but understanding doesn’t make it hurt any less.

How did I end up here—again—holding space in a place I don’t belong, going against my soul and everything I know to be right, all in the name of “love.”

Funny, I’ve been here before. At the ripe age of thirteen, in love with a man three times my age. Back then, I was naïve enough to believe love could uproot a family, that it could build the life I’d already designed in my mind. But I give myself grace. I was a child.

Now, at thirty-two, I don’t want to uproot anything. I’m just hell-bent on feeling.

“The wages of sin is death.”
Those words rang in my ears as I opened my eyes this morning. They settled on my tongue, waiting to be spoken.
I know, I sighed.
I know.

And I am living that death.
This dull, empty, foreign space consumes me. I can’t tell if I’m coming or going. Sleeping with soulless beings, feeding them my energy, baring my soul until I am drained. Consumed. Lie after lie, “I love you” reduced to a ticket to my body.

And I feel it; every bit of it. The pain in my abdomen, the quiet rebellion of a body that knows it does not want this. These men, these hollow vessels, roaming the world seeking powerful women. Afraid of our light, they take us down first.

Spiritual warfare.

And I’m still standing here, not yet sure whether I’m the last one fighting… or the next one to fall

The wind feels different lately, like it’s carrying whispers I’m not supposed to hear. The air is heavy, charged, as if something is coming for me or through me. I can’t tell if it’s a warning or an invitation.

I keep thinking about disappearing. Not the kind that leaves a note, but the kind where you simply dissolve from people’s memories, like you never existed at all.

Maybe that’s the only way to survive this; become unfindable, unreadable, untouchable. Or maybe the real fight is to stay, to face it head-on and risk losing the last pieces of myself I’ve managed to keep.

Either way, I feel the shift pressing in. And whatever it is, it’s already here.