“Numb Is Not Healed”

She took the pill,

and silence fell—

not peace,

but a blanket over a screaming wound.

Numbness isn’t healing.

It’s a paused scream,

a dreamless sleep

with all the monsters wide awake beneath.

They call it help,

these bottles lined like sentinels on the shelf—

but they do not hold your hand

through the fire.

They do not weep with you

in the night.

I walked into the storm.

Face first.

Chest out.

Let the wind peel the ache off my bones.

Let the rain wash the blood and blame.

She stayed dry.

Shadowed under umbrellas

held up by others

who never dared to ask

what it costs

to never get wet.

You cannot medicate away

a soul that wants to be seen.

You cannot outrun

the voice inside that whispers,

“Feel this.

Face this.

Free yourself.”

Healing is ugly.

It is fists in walls

and prayers on floors.

It is vomit and journals

and forgiving people

who never say sorry.

But it is real.

She is numb.

But I?

I am alive.

Scarred, yes.

But mine are earned.

And they shine like thunderclouds

after the storm.