Coraline

  I used to believe that things end because someone leaves,  or because time decides it has had enough, as if time were a judge,  as if departure were proof. as if endings were anything but a human convenience. But nothing truly ends. It only decoheres. States drift. Probabilities thin. What once interfered learns how to exist without touching. Every version of me that almost chose otherwise  still hums quietly in the background noise of days. Not alive. Not gone.  Just unresolved, like equations left unsolved,  not because they are wrong, but because no one needed their answer yet. I learned too late that observation is not innocent. To look is to interfere. And I kept looking. To remember is to collapse a thousand possible selves  into one narrative I can still carry. Memory is a measurement. Identity is a result I wake up inside. Meaning appears only after the wave has broken. Some systems never close. They leak traces, patterns, unfin...

I whispered burn it. A plea buried under years. I'd left the door unlocked  for ghosts that never knew how to stay. They hunger. They hover. They haunt. But I won't live with beautiful shadows. Our old house sagged under them. The beams ached with the years I tried to hide. But you lit the match and didn't let me flinch. Even quiet has a breaking point. Let it fall. All the shadows. All the rooms that kept me small. Light it. Some beginnings require flame. We'll build our new house. We'll build the breathing room we never had. Coraline

There are days my skin refuses everyone. Not out of cruelty. Out of the ancient instinct to survive myself. A hand reaches for me,  and something inside goes dark. Lights out. Curtains drawn. A quiet locking of every internal door. Not fear. Not anger.  Just a small, exhausted  no. At night, even the idea of touch feels like trespass. I freeze. I turn to stone. I slip out of my body and watch myself pretend. Nodding. Smiling. Moving. A ghost inside skin that hasn't felt like home in years. You ask what I feel. I feel the strain of holding myself together. I feel the echo of every moment  my body wasn't mine. I feel the fingerprints of touches I never agreed to,  still haunting the edges of my breath. And lately, more often than not, I cannot be touched without disappearing. It isn't about him. Or him. Or now. There is a temple under my ribs  where no one enters anymore. The altar is cold. Touch hits me  like lightning on marble. Loud. Blinding. Wrong. ...

I had a hundred things  I wanted to tell you,  the small ones, sharp ones, the kind that live under the tongue. I wanted to say I miss you in ways I can't understand. To say what kept me awake,  what scared me, what stayed. I wanted to say  that your silence cuts exactly where your voice once lived. But I won't. Not today. Not to you. You'll read none of this,  and still, somehow,  you'll feel it. Coraline

Lately,  solitude feels like the only room  where my chest can finally breathe. I don't crave company. I crave the soft sound  of my own thoughts settling  after too many days of noise. It's strange how even love can feel heavy  when the world inside my ribs  is collapsing quietly. I don't avoid people. I just disappear into myself  because it's the only place  that doesn't pull at my seams. Aloneness is not my wound. It's the bandage I keep pressing over it. Coraline