Without Repair

rawaneigh.99

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

  • Author: rawaneigh.99 (Online Online)
  • Published: September 27th, 2025 17:04
  • Category: Unclassified
  • Views: 1
Get a free collection of Classic Poetry ↓

Receive the ebook in seconds 50 poems from 50 different authors




To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.