I cradle the pieces of my shattered self,
a constellation of nightmares spread across a darkened sky. They told me the stars are distant, but these stars, these stars are hisses, cold and hollow,
haunting the spaces where my sanity used to live.
I stand in the eye of a storm called Yesterday,
its winds ripping through my memories,
each gust a scream of a battle fought and lost,
of nights spent in trenches of sleeplessness,
my pillow a graveyard of dreams.
The world tells me to breathe,
but breathing feels like inhaling shards of glass,
each breath a reminder of broken promises,
of comfort that slips through my fingers like sand,
vanishing into the vacuum of what once was safe.
I chase after fragments of peace, scattered like leaves in a hurricane. I wade through the mire of my thoughts, each step a contradicting waltz of ache and numbness, my heart a metronome that ticks in discord.
In the curcuit of my mind, I build walls of conversations, each word a brick, each line a barricade, hoping the pages
of others’ sorrows might shield
me from my own.
I drown in the rhythm of shared silence,
a drumbeat in the abyss, a cadence of empathy.
Through the kaleidoscope of our scars,
I find the design of healing,
a pattern plaited from threads of collective suffering.
In the sanctuary of the present, I lay down my armor of pretense, clutch the raw wound of vulnerability,
and in the rawness,
find solace in the act of being, a paradox where the
shattered self finds wholeness.
I seek the dawn, not for the promise of light,
but for the quiet, an absence of sound,
a pause between the notes where the echoes recede,
and in that stillness, I find the courage to face
the relentless storm of my past.
So here I stand, trembling yet defiant, in the chaos of my own making, searching for the slivers of calm that punctuate the noise, the moments where the shadows become my allies, and the cries of my trauma transform into sighs of hope.