It’s like holding someone
mid-fall,
telling them to breathe
while the blood keeps learning new ways out.
No one sees the inner rupture,
the quiet tearing,
hands digging through what’s left
because nothing inside is untouched anymore.
Pain is swallowed.
Shame is drunk.
Fear leaks out in small, undignified ways.
And still—
the body insists on staying.
There are no stitches for this.
No clean hands.
No gentle sentence
that knows where to land.
Only flesh
teaching itself endurance.
One foot near the edge.
One foot trembling with speed,
adrenaline speaking louder
than hope ever did.
From afar, voices say:
“Drama.”
“Attention.”
“If it were real, it’d be over.”
Tell your cousin.
Tell your neighbor.
Tell your friend.
No one flirts with the void
for fun.
This is not a wish to die.
It’s what happens
when living
hurts like an act of violence.