First song of my album im releasing on 22 November

Learn 2 Cope

Change Terrifies Me (But So Does Staying Here)

I wake up every day in a room that feels less like mine.
Familiar walls, unfamiliar reflection,
the mirror doesn’t lie, but it doesn’t understand either.
My own skin clings like a disguise I never asked for.
I try to peel it off with words, with silence, with scars,
but nothing underneath ever feels more me.

They look at me like I’m some glitch in their bloodline.
“Why can’t you just be normal?”
Normal.
As if I wasn’t trying to be digestible, palatable,
a version of myself that doesn’t choke in their throats.

I laugh too loud or too quiet,
too much or not enough.
My existence feels like static.
Like I wasn’t born to be seen, only tolerated.

Inside, there’s this ache,
not sharp enough to scream,
but constant enough to rot.
Like something’s dying in me slowly,
but everyone else just calls it growing up.

I hate my thoughts.
I hate my shape.
I hate how I shrink to fit into rooms that still tell me I take up too much space.
I hate how I crave change but fear it.
I hate how I scream inside but whisper in real life.

I want to leave this version of me behind,
burn her, bury her,
but who would I become?
The truth is, I don’t know who I am.
Only that I’m not this.
Not enough.

The future feels like a hallway with all the lights out,
and I’m barefoot, bleeding, stumbling through it.
And yet the past has already closed its doors,
locked behind mistakes and memories
I replay like broken film.

I dig deeper and deeper,
hoping to find some kind of treasure in the dirt.
But it’s just more dirt.
And the weight of it all is starting to feel like home.

Is it wrong to want to disappear
but not die?
To want to be someone else
but not know who that is?

I smile when they talk.
I nod, I perform.
But I’m not there.
Just a shadow in my own story.

Everything hurts, but nothing is bleeding.
I say I’m fine, because it’s easier than explaining the maze in my chest.

But sometimes, just sometimes,
I wonder if this is all too much.
If I’m too much.
Or not enough.

So I ask myself, again,
in a whisper so small it could break,

am I overreacting? 

entry point

vic ultraviolet

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