some night,
i feel like i’m held together
by the softest threads—
phone-light at 2 a.m.,
someone’s voice saying “you okay?”
when i’m absolutely not.
i have cried in bathrooms
with the faucet running
because that’s the only place
i ever learned to fall apart
quietly.
i want to be brave
in the cinematic way—
rain-soaked, desperate,
confessing something true.
instead, i love people
in lowercase,
in almosts,
in messages i never send.
my mother tells me
i was gentle as a child,
always handing her broken things
like she could fix them.
i wish i could hand her myself
just once more
and say:
it cracked again.
i’m trying.
please don’t be disappointed.
i’m made of glass
i didn’t ask for—
and i’m learning
how not to shatter
when someone knocks too hard.