𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫

                             𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫

                                             ᴮʸ· ᴵᵈˡᵉ

𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝑪𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓,

With trembling hands I hold this pen,

To ask the questions burning in my core.

Why did you write me into existence,

Only to make me suffer so much more?

Was it not enough to give me nightmares?

Did you need to make them follow me by day?

Could I not have been a hero in some fantasy,

Where my trauma gave me powers to display?

I could have channeled pain to summon lightning,

Or spoken to the whispers in the trees.

My scars could have been ancient magic,

My tears could have brought kingdoms to their knees.

Instead, I battle demons no one else can see,

Invisible tormentors living rent free in my head.

Why couldn’t you make them manifest before me,

Give form to formless dread?

At least when I’m screaming into the darkness

Id have something tangible to fight.

A monster I could name, and face, and conquer,

Not this shapeless terror in the night.

If I could dwell in realms of pure escapism,

With aliens or dragons by my side,

Why make me so painfully realistic,

With nowhere safe to hide?

Why design me with these sleepless nights,

This appetite that withers, comes and goes?

Why program breaths that catch inside my chest,

And panic that like wildfire grows?

You wrote me into corners, endless mazes,

Stuck in loops of suffering on repeat.

No magical solutions, no redemption arcs,

No triumph rising from defeat.

Was it laziness or cruelty that guided you?

Did you need my pain to tell your tail?

Or am I simply words upon a page to you,

A character whose torment helps you sell?

Could you not have written just one more chapter,

Where I felt the sun without the shade?

Where breathing came as naturally as blinking,

Where happiness wasn’t quite so afraid?

I'm tired of being trapped within this narrative,

Of pain that serves no purpose I can see.

If i'm meant to learn some cosmic lesson,

The meaning still eludes this broken me.

So tell me, author, of my existence,

As I drown in ink of your design.

Why couldn’t you have written me different,

Why couldn’t peace, for once, be mine?

I wait for your reply between these pages,

Though fear you'll never let me know.

Perhaps the answer is there is no answer,

And that's the cruelest plot twist of all.