Yael Olalde-Garcia

the ache of staying alive

how much it hurts

to stay.

i am not fire,

or a myth —

just bones,

flesh,

still red.

 

i crave the black,

the stillness

the cathedral i’ve built inside it,

the quiet keeps me a mute

still i’m in pursuit.

 

it’s easier

to write being

than be.

 

i keep a knife

by my side,

in case

i blink.

no apologies.

 

all i’ve ever wanted

was to be seen —

 

it feels like

a car collision

in my chest,

every day.

 

my body aches,

but not from pain.

 

joy swallows me

though i’m not whole;

if i went tonight,

i’d die happy

 

alright.

 

isn’t that just

what the living ache for?