I am still here

In the hush where daylight thins and breaks,

I feel the floor of my own heart give way.

A quiet tide of shadows slowly takes

The names I used to call myself by day.

I walk through rooms where every mirror dims,

Where even breath sounds distant, small, and cold.

The dark is not a door that simply swings—

It is a hand that loosens what I hold.

And still I go, though I do not know why,

Down into that unlit and narrowing place,

Where all my brightest reasons seem to die

And grief sits heavy, patient, face to face.

There, in the depth, I hear a fragile spark:

Not joy, not hope—just proof I am still here.

A pulse beneath the weight, a thread in dark,

A trembling voice that says, “You have not disappeared.”

So if I sink, let it be slow and true,

A falling that can teach me how to bend.

For even in the night, I may pass through

And find, beyond the dark, a way to mend.