Buried beneath the bones of my childhood home, I lay,
Body pinned to the earth in a desperate plea to halt the spinning,
Searching for ground strong enough to anchor this version of me,
A version no longer splintered, no longer shattered.
But most days, when mother asks if I'm eating,
Another piece crumbles away, falling from what's left of me.
I cannot bear to tell her that dread has hollowed my stomach,
That grief hammers on my bedroom door with such force,
I curl into a ball, a trembling child, unable to rise.
Most days, I survive on air alone,
Filling my lungs with emptiness, because it’s all that sustains me now.
And I spend hours staring into the mirror,
Desperate to recall the face I used to know,
The one that once wore confidence like a second skin,
That laughed and smiled with ease,
But now only a ghost stares back, haunted by what’s been lost.

​

I tell myself that avoidance isn’t the answer,
Yet avoiding everyone’s gaze has become my survival skill,
A defense against the world’s unrelenting scrutiny.
I am trying—God, I am trying—to survive,
To remember how to live.
To fill my belly with more than just sorrow,
To train my body to endure the simplest tasks,
To force out the thoughts that claw at my mind,
And find pride in the smallest victories:
Brushing my teeth without crying,
Washing my hair without breaking,
Taking a shower without feeling the water's weight drown me,
Getting dressed without the clothes feeling like a shroud.
Reaching out to friends, taking a walk,
Smelling the goddamn roses and not wondering how long they’ll last.

​

Because no one ever taught me this—not in school, not at home.
I’ve had to find solace in the smoke of rolled paper,
In the burn of liquor down my throat,
In the sting of blades against my skin,
In the numbness of knocking out faceless opponents,
In disappearing into the pages of thousand-word novels,
Trying to escape a world that never taught me how to live.

​

Why, in all these years, did no one ever mention the constant ache of existence?
That pity, regret, and shame would pitch their tents in my backyard,
That fear would paralyze me,
Keep me from telling my brothers how men spit venomous words,
How they call me names because I refuse to crawl on my knees.
That my ex could cheat, and I wouldn’t leave,
Because I believed I’d suffocate without them,
That love could become a prison,
The same hands that held me could bruise me.
That labels would be slapped across my forehead,
Labels I was too afraid to peel off,
Too scared to correct, to demand to be understood,
So I swallowed my pride, choked on it,
Protested against the parts of me that craved joy,
Took a hammer to the pieces that refused to harden,
Told myself I wanted to make it this far.
But I can’t seem to swallow the scream lodged in my throat,
I’d tear out my vocal cords with these shaking hands,
Wring out the lies I’ve buried deep inside,
If it meant I could find my voice again.

​

Yet now, when it feels like my life might finally be mine,
When I hold it, trembling, in my hands,
I am terrified.
I know what the world is made of—the bitterness, the bile.
But no one ever told me about grief,

How it seeps into your bones,
How it lingers long after the anger fades.
No one told me how often I’d have to leave pieces of myself behind,
How my heart could break and mend, break and mend,
Over and over again,
A constant cycle of destruction and repair,
And there is no escape, no end to this.
Forever breaking, forever mending.

​

Sometimes, the world leaves stains on your soul,
But there is nothing more violent, more excruciating,
Then the act of healing.
To feel everything, to embrace the pain, without regrets—
This is the battle I wage.