Message

No amount of gauze can stop the bleeding.

The flow is constant—never slowing, never clotting.

It doesn’t scab, doesn’t seal, just soaks deeper and deeper,

a red trail behind me marking every moment I’ve survived when I didn’t want to.

Vision blurs.

Body heavy.

Each step feels like it belongs to someone else—

like I’m possessed or running on fumes.

Moving forward not out of hope, but habit.

Or maybe just because falling feels worse than crawling.

My only companions now are the sharp throb in my chest

and the fist I keep clenched to stop from shaking.

They say the war is over—

but I never got that message.

I’ve been on the battlefield so long

it’s the only place that feels familiar.

Like you once had been.