I gather what’s left of me
The way dawn gathers frost
Slow
Careful
Almost afraid to breathe
Each shard remembers something
A voice I trusted
A promise that cracked
A softness I dropped on the way to surviving
I turn them in my hands
Until the edges stop drawing blood
Until the shape of me
Starts to look less like a warning
And more like a beginning
Nothing fits the way it used to
But maybe that’s the point
To build a self that can hold tight
Without shattering
To rise from the floor
Not perfect
Just whole enough to keep going
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Author:
Anthony Hanible (
Online) - Published: March 5th, 2026 04:01
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 23
- Users favorite of this poem: Anthony Hanible, Demar Desu - 德马尔·德苏
Online)
Comments2
Many what a polished product while others just make due with anything that works. Nicely done
masterpiece
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