The Year That Killed Me

This year,
a funeral hymn choked in my throat,
an endless requiem for a life undone,
its echoes carved across my ribs,
etching grief into every breath.

This year,
broke me into shards too jagged to hold,
too sharp to discard,
each piece slicing through the fabric of who I was,
until I was only edges—
a ghost of myself in the mirror’s gaze.

It killed me,
not with sudden violence,
but with slow, deliberate suffocation:
each second a stone,
each hour a weight,
each day an executioner with no face.

Ruined—
my voice turned to ash,
my dreams collapsed into the grave of my chest,
every hope a casualty,
every light devoured by the black.

I cried rivers that swallowed me whole,
oceans that left no shore in sight,
the salt of my tears the only thing
that reminded me I was still alive—
if only to suffer.

I carried too much,
felt too much,
bled too much.
The world piled itself upon me,
the sun burning my skin,
the moon ignoring my pleas,
the stars falling silent in my despair.

This year,
was not a story—
it was a slaughter,
a testament to survival I did not ask for,
a storm with no calm,
a fire that did not purify but consumed.

And here I stand,
a silhouette of what was,
hollow, broken,
swallowed by the black,
waiting for nothing,
because nothing is all that remains.