How do i live?

Writing is futile when every breath and keystroke is a fight to keep walls from crumbling down.

What a lie. The walls were never there. What you thought were pieces falling were stones thrown at you for sins past and present. You fell. No. To fall down means at some point you were standing. Which you never were. Crouched in the darkened corner hiding from whatever light that could reveal your flaws, you never realized all the debris around was only your fault. They're your pieces. Nobody else's. You broke yourself, chunk by chunk whatever you thought was undesirable, and now you are shocked when you came tumbling down?

Now there's nothing left of you. Just an ashy breath and some broken sentences.

And nobody is going to come and clean up this mess.

Not even the delete key.