The Refusal to Die of This.

 

Tonight my bones riot.

The room is small

and I am smaller.


Shame sits on my chest

like a cat that won’t move,

heavy, indifferent,

purring its hunger.


I want to disappear

before my own shadow sees me.


Every voice in me turns sharp at the edges,

saying:


too much.

too loud.

too alive.


My thoughts bruise themselves

against the walls of my skull.


I’m tired of being.

A room with no doors.

A pulse with nowhere to go.


If I could peel myself open

I’d find the truth crouched inside.


not broken.

not unworthy.

just a creature

that hasn’t slept in years.


So I stay still.

let the dark eat around me,

without swallowing me whole.


And when morning comes,

I’ll gather whatever pieces survived

and carry them.


No softness.

No glory.

just a stubborn breathing

refusal to die of this.

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