Broken Lines & Better Days

I don’t if I’m healing or hiding

Some days the silence feels like medicine

Other days it feels like chains

Like I’m a puppet to play with

I’m limp

Days blur

Conversation going in one ear and out the other

My chest heavy

The weight of love I cannot let go of crushing my lungs

I struggle to breathe

But I smile

My tears flow in the quiet of night

Silent sobs, suffocatingly silent sobs

The sting from the cut on my waistline is comforting

The pain an old friend I welcome with open arms

What is healing

When am I considered healed?

Am I healed?

If I’m being ripped to shreds

Piece by slow torturing piece

My heart is ash

Demolished

Destroyed

I live in a house that doesn’t quite hold me.

Walls recognise my name,

but not my shape.

Everything is almost—

almost fair,

almost soft,

almost love.

I have learnt to fold myself

into something quieter,

something easier to keep.

There are rules here

that no one says out loud—

only felt

in the way I am corrected

for bleeding too visibly,

for speaking too sharply,

for existing too fully.

So I become careful.

I swallow words

until they turn heavy,

until they bruise the inside of my ribs,

until anger learns to wear

the wrong voice.

And when it spills—

because it always spills—

it comes out jagged,

misunderstood,

rejected before it’s even heard.

They say: soften.

They say: don’t be mean.

They say everything except:

you’re right.

So I carry it instead.

A quiet knowing

that sits behind my teeth,

pressing,

pressing,

pressing—

that something here is not fair,

and I am the only one

who feels it this loudly.

I am tired of translating myself

into something acceptable.

Tired of being the one

who adjusts,

who understands,

who steps back

so the air stays calm.

There is a version of me

that does not shrink to fit a room.

I can feel her sometimes—

sharp and certain,

standing at the edge of my voice,

wanting to speak

without apology.

But here,

she is too much.

So I keep her hidden

in the spaces between my breaths,

in the silence after I am corrected,

in the ache of words

I almost said.

And still—

even folded,

even quiet,

even misunderstood—

there is something in me

that refuses to disappear.

A small, stubborn truth:

I was never meant

to feel like this

What would I say to that

six year old little girl?

Would I tell her to watch out

for the storm?

Would I say that life’s

going to get really confusing?

Tell her to toughen up?

Maybe that she must

hold onto her smile and

and her little laugh?

That little girl, the one who

was free, daddy’s princess

That little girl is going to

cry herself to sleep

That little girl is going to take

the blame for her brothers

That little girl, who is going

to develop a fear of angry men

and loud noises

That little girl will flinch at any

sudden movement

That little girl with the too big for

her face smile

She’s gone, or she is a ghost

of herself

Buried under the role of therapist

of obligation

of worry and disappointment

That little girl, she doesn’t play dress up anymore, no more secret agent or play house

She doesn’t know what role to play

That little girl got hit hard by reality

It slapped her in the face leaving

bruises in it wake

That little girl, she, she’s a fighter

She’ll make it

I had a friendship

that was all open hands

always asking, always hungry

and I kept feeding it

because sometimes being needed

feels like being loved.

It gave, too.

Enough to keep me staying.

Laughter like shelter.

Memories that felt permanent.

Hope handed to me in pieces.

I didn’t see the danger

because it looked like devotion.

I didn’t see the cost

until my hands forgot

what it felt like to rest.

When it hurt, it hurt loudly.

A wildfire kind of ending.

No quiet goodbye.

No mercy in the flames.

Just smoke in my chest

and my name burning

in someone else’s mouth.

I learned that some fires

don’t want warmth.

They want witnesses.

And I stood there,

watching something I loved

turn to ash,

wondering when care became damage

but not today

Today.

Now.

Personally.

I’m lost

I’m drowning

I’m a body swallowed by dark water

And I don’t want to reach for the surface

Because there’s something familiar here

something honest

about the suffering

Like a sick, quiet game

played entirely inside my head

how much can I hurt

without leaving a mark

How far can I sink

sink

sink

Until I am less

and less

that it was also my fault—

although that isn’t true.

Because it was something I feared

long before it happened,

and it’s not like I forgot,

or ever will.

So no, I don’t have to remind myself.

It’s already on a constant loop

inside my head.

And I wonder if it would still be like this,

if it would have turned out this way,

if I had just been better,

if I wasn’t me,

if—

I don’t even know.

All I know is that I burned everything,

and then it all turned to ash.

And now I stand, looking over the pile,

while an intense numbness

fire in my chest.

This love of mine

consumes my entire being.

Who am I

without my fiery destruction?

I love.

The pain.

Is that so wrong?

To crave it,

to yearn for it

as one does for another?

Because we are

as friends are,

except maybe

a little messy,

a little deranged.

But we love.

And after all,

love is

I gave myself two minutes to silently sob— the most gut‑wrenching kind of crying, the kind that never makes a sound.

Then I stopped. What’s the point? Why cry? Why am I crying? I don’t even care enough to cry. I just switch my emotions off.

I got up, took my meds, washed my face, got ready for bed like I wasn’t breaking inside, like I’m not still splintering quietly, like I don’t just need a damn hug.

But I don’t have the energy to pretend everything is okay right now. I’m scared I’m not going to make it through the holidays.

I don’t want to be with someone who doesn’t have the time for me— I know life is hard, I know they’re tired, I know they’re overwhelmed, and yes, I’m a lot. I get it.

But I want that version of care. I want someone to really see me. Maybe I’m selfish, maybe I only think of myself, but don’t I deserve that too?

And yeah, I stay home. Yeah, I’m lazy. Yeah, life is messy. But I try. Every day I try so hard to be good, to be better, to fight battles I know I’ll never fully win— and still, every damn day, I get up anyway.

I just want someone who really sees me. I need them. Because I’m struggling, and I know I’m hurting, and it’s so hard to act normal when I’m this tired, this drained, this hollowed out.

I feel like people only care when I’m polished, when I’m pretending, not when I’m messy, bare, shaking, barely holding it together.

I’m easier to love when I’m pretending.

She sits in a room

She’s surrounded by family

She is utterly alone

She feels the need to cry

She imagines the blade at home

Glinting in the light

As it disappears into her skin

Leaving red little dots behind

She can’t wait for winter

When she can write poetry on her arms

A master piece of words unspoken

She’s falling behind

Tripping over expectations

Her body is a bloody mess

Her brain is shot to pieces

I think I miss you in the greatest sense.

Because I still see you everywhere.

I see you in panda pins,

in dance videos,

in jazz music,

in someone’s perfume,

their hairstyle,

their nail designs,

their fashion choices.

I see you in sunrises

and sunsets.

I see you in the black hoodie

hanging off my chair.

I see you in life.

Because everything

reminds me of you.

It’s like the world keeps handing me

little pieces of you

I’ll never forget.

And that’s okay.

Because I will meet

many more people,

and my life will become

a beautiful mosaic