Without Repair

Is there a fix for a soul split open,
for the silence that swallows every scream?
I carry the weight of hours that never heal,
their shadows pressed into my skin like scars.
The world tells me to endure,
but endurance feels like drowning slowly,
a ritual of breathing water instead of air.
I have searched for an answer
in broken mirrors,
in nights where the ceiling would not let me sleep,
in words that came out trembling,
half-alive, half-afraid to be heard.
I asked the walls,
I asked the cold,
but their replies were emptier than my chest.
Is there a fix for this endless ache—
or is pain the language my body was born to speak?
I am tired of translating it into smiles,
of disguising my fractures with borrowed laughter.
People want the surface to shine,
but they never kneel to see the cracks beneath.
I wonder if the cure is forgetting,
or if forgetting is only another wound.
I wonder if the cure is time,
but time has teeth,
and I am already bruised from its bite.
I wonder if the cure is love,
but even love has left fingerprints of absence
on my ribs where it promised to stay.
So I ask again,
in the hollow voice that echoes my name:
Is there a fix for being human,
for waking up with sorrow stitched into the veins,
for carrying a heart that beats against itself,
like an enemy locked inside my chest?
If there is,
I have not found it.
If there is,
it hides in a place no one will tell me.
And until then,
I remain—
a question without an answer,
a body learning how to survive
without repair