Echoes in Glass

I feel like a bottle, cracking from the inside, a rainbow of emotion sloshing under pressure. I’m expected to smile while my seams come apart. No one sees the glass until it shatters. Every dream ends in pain or silence. In some, I die. Brutally. Slowly. With detail. In others, I end my own life, and watch how the world reacts afterward. They’re often relieved. Or indifferent. Sometimes, the setting is abstract. Dark alleyways. Whispering walls. Memories I’ve tried to forget. Voices that know me too well. They call me weak. A pushover. They laugh. I’ve felt pain in these dreams. Real pain. Real fear. And I never wake up when I die — I stay conscious. I feel what it’s like. The last dream I remember, I got into a car accident. Then the hospital. Then a heart attack. I remember the pain in my chest. The pressure. The flatline. I saw my body from the outside. Strangers around me. Familiar, but unknown. When I woke up, I was still there. Still here. And I was scared. I’m sorry for talking so much. I know you moved on from the topic hours ago. from the topic hours ago. I’m sorry for bringing it back. I’m sorry I couldn’t let it go. I’m sorry I can’t catch social cues. I’m sorry if I made things worse.