My Acoustic Diaries — The Hollow With Teeth

 

People call me strong.

They say it like it’s a compliment.
Like surviving is the same thing as living.
Like the fact that I can write songs about the pain means I’ve already healed from it.

But the truth is: I’m still inside the fire.
I’m not past anything.
I’m in it.

I feel everything too much.
There’s no middle ground in me.
No steady hum.
It’s either total numbness or every emotion hitting at once, full force, like a punch straight through my ribs.

And lately, the feeling in my chest isn’t just ache.
It’s a hollow with weight.
Something that takes up space.
Something that breathes.
Like a pit that learned how to stay.

People think I’m okay because I can talk about it.
They think articulation is the same as control.

But I haven’t been okay for a long time.

---

The Part People Don’t Want to See

Everyone imagines I just smoke and write songs under dim lights, letting the sadness drift out in soft clouds.

No.

I load the rig.
Tap the vein.
Pull back the plunger and watch the blood bloom into the solution like recognition.
Like proof that I’m still here.
Like something that tells me my body hasn’t given up yet, even if my mind has.

It’s not romantic.
It’s not poetic.
It’s survival by slow destruction.

And I hate that it works.
Even for a moment.

---

And Then There’s Her

She’s not the reason I’m breaking.
But she’s the part of me that’s still alive enough to feel it.

I love her more than I’ve loved anything.
Not in the loud, dramatic way.
In the quiet, steady, terrifying way where I would give without taking.

She says she feels something too —
but the distance between her words and her actions stretches miles.

One-word replies.
Long pauses.
“I’m not ready.”
A disappearing message.
A silence where I needed softness.

It’s the kind of almost-love that can ruin a person.

I don’t need her to pick me.
I don’t need her to fix me.
I just need one sentence I can hold onto when everything else goes dark:

“I’m not ready yet — but when I am, it’s you.”

That’s it.
Just something real enough to hang on to.

Because my biggest fear isn’t losing her.

My biggest fear is being kept close enough to hope,
but never close enough to heal.

---

The Rest of It

This isn’t just about love.
It’s the pressure.
The noise.
People around me constantly, but none of them actually seeing me.
It’s the house arrest looming.
The feeling of being caged while already trapped inside myself.
It’s the constant belief that I’m almost enough, almost wanted, almost chosen — but never quite.

It’s waking up and feeling like I’ve already failed before I even open my eyes.

And I just want to be alive again.

Not surviving.
Not running.
Not numbing.
Alive.

I want to write because I feel, not because I’m trying to outrun the feeling.
I want to love without having to beg to be understood.
I want to sit across from someone and not have to hide the soft parts of me that scare everybody away.

---

What I’m Trying to Say

When I say I love you, I’m not asking for ownership.
I’m not asking for guarantees.
I’m not demanding timelines.

I’m saying:

I see you.
I choose you.
And I’m here — even when I’m breaking.

I don’t want anything from her.

I just want a world where connection doesn’t feel like trying to hold smoke.

Where someone sits beside the hollow, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t run, doesn’t judge —
and just says:

“I got you.
I’m here.
No matter what.”

That’s all I’ve ever needed.
That’s all I’ve ever tried to give.

And maybe — if this comes across the way I meant it — someone will finally understand.

If I disappear, I hope this explains why. Walters Fall