Once,
my heart was a vessel.
It brimmed with love
so carelessly
it spilled into hands
that never came thirsty.
When they left,
they did not empty it.
First,
they filled it with poison.
I drank from myself
every morning—
bitterness on my tongue,
grief beneath my ribs,
hoping one day
I would run out.
I did.
The poison disappeared
long before I did.
Now,
there is nothing left to swallow.
No rage
to set the walls on fire.
No sorrow
to flood them.
No hope
to keep a window unlocked.
Only silence.
People mistake this
for peace.
It isn\'t.
Peace has a heartbeat.
This has none.
I search for myself
the way abandoned houses
wait for footsteps—
not expecting them,
only remembering
what they once sounded like.
My heart still exists.
It simply no longer
contains weather.
No storms.
No spring.
Not even winter.
Just a sky
that forgot
it was ever meant
to hold the sun.