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.
-
Author:
Sigmund Gilbert (Pseudonym) (
Offline)
- Published: May 14th, 2025 09:11
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 8
- Users favorite of this poem: Poetic Licence
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