I sit in presence, breath sharp and thin,
Beg for silence, not thoughts within.
I plead, just let me hold this peace,
But the past breaks through — it never ceased.


A voice I know too well returns,
"You’re broken still. Just let it burn."
The breath I counted breaks in half,
Replaced by shame’s familiar laugh.


The body's here, but mind’s adrift,

To years I learned to numb and shift.
Survival had its terms and price,

A silent mouth, a grip of ice,

A clever trick, a mask, a lie,

That let the softest parts not die.

Each breath I take, a shattered plea,
Like treading glass beneath the sea.
The silence screams, a violent storm,
Inside, a war I can't transform.

I journal, pause, retrace the line,

Not to relive, but to define.

What came before?
What triggered this?

Where did I lose the present’s kiss?

Chain by chain, I lay it bare,

The thought, the urge, the vacant stare.

The moment I began to slide,

What I felt, and what I tried.

No judgment here, just map and light,

To learn to choose instead of fight.

It wasn't weakness—what I chose—

It was survival, not repose.

And now I see the tangled thread,

The reason why I froze, I bled.

Not just to cope, but to endure,

A life that never felt quite sure.

But still—I breathe. I try. I stay.

Some peace glimmers in the grey.

Not every ghost deserves to steer.

Not every thought belongs back here.
The present waits with quiet hands,

It understands, it understands.

I stand at the edge where the water begins,
Feel a pull in my chest,
The tide drawing in.
The urge like a whisper,
Like salt on my skin,
It says “Come under, let go, give in.”

My thoughts like the wave crash, tumble and spin,
Each one a stone I carry within.
I try to say “They're just clouds in the sky,”
But they’re swollen with rain,
They’re not passing by.

Grief is an anchor, dragging me deep,
Pain pounds in my chest to a merciless beat.
Sadness clings like a storm-soaked shroud,
And inside me, the shame, silent and proud.

I try to surf it, this wave of despair,
To ride it, to balance, to come up for air.
But it towers above me, too heavy, too fast,
I’m caught in its pull, I’m stuck in its grasp.

I can’t breathe. My chest feels like its caving in.
Is this how it ends, or does something begin?
A part of me pleads “Please make it stop,”
Another still fights to rise to the top.

But somewhere below, in the deepest part,
A flicker remains, a stubborn heart.
It kicks against current, gasps at the sky,
Not ready to go yet, not ready to die.

I want it to end, this insufferable pain,
But I have to suffer, I must try again.
So I’ll try and float now, bruised but alive,
Not surfing clean, but I still survive.
And maybe that’s all I can do for today,
Not ride the wave, but not drift away.

Beneath my ribs,

Time folds in like broken wings.

A cradle of fear, and a silence that screams.
A ringing haunts the hollows of my ears.
And when I go there -
When memory dares to whisper,

I choose this time to listen.


It tightens.
Clenching, grasping, seizing pace,
Not gentle.

Not tender like nostalgia’s warm embrace.
But like a vice rusted shut,

Turning slow,

Squeezing the rhythm
 out of my chest,

Until my heart forgets
 how to lie.

The pain is not a metaphor.

It really hurts.

Like steel licked by flame,

then driven through
 the core of every truth
 I buried just to survive.
It enters through the breastbone,
and leaves through the spine,

A molten scream,

Bending time.
Splitting skin,
Forcing itself through the weapon turned within.

And then -

The trembling.

Not from cold,

but from release.

From poison rising,

bitter and ancient,

coiled in the gut
 like swallowed glass.
The lies I called truth.

The love I had to earn.

The blame I cradled
 in small, shaking arms,

too young to know
 it was never mine to bear.

I cry -
Not from pain,

but because it is necessary.

Like rain,

after too many seasons
 of drought and dust.

And my body -
Oh, it knows.

It shudders like a storm
 breaking open the sky,

Violent in its mercy,

washing me clean,

drop by drop

of rot I once called me.

And now it leaves -
Not softly,

Not kindly,
But it leaves.
And I am left,

Pleading,

Needing,

to let more go.

When waves of sorrow crash and churn,
And hatred flares with no concern,
My breath is shallow, fists clenched tight,
The world turns red, then fades to white.

Just turn the mind, and start again,
But how? When crippled by this pain.
When everything in me screams ‘resist’,
I clench, I curse, I cease to exist.

They say try willing hands, be still.
Let go of judgment, drop the will.
But hands don't soften in the flames,
They brace, they fight, they burn with shame.

Half-smile, they say. Just curve your lips,
As if that tames apocalypse.
How shallow and false a smile can feel,
When nothing I touch seems quite real.

To notice, observe, and question each thought,
Is this truth or lies that I was taught?
Emotions’ power drags me down,
A riptide pulling where I drown.

It's hard to stand, to pause, to see,
When grief’s a weight around my knees.
To not believe the storm inside,
To see the truth, eyes open wide.

That is the work. The brutal art.
To touch the world with broken heart.
To turn the mind, again, again,
Despite being soaked in loss and pain.

So here I sit, breathing still,
With trembling limbs and fractured will.
But still I try, with hands unclenched,
A half-smile forced through teeth tight-wrenched.
Thoughts still howl, but I remain,
Willing hands in pouring rain.

I walk through Hell in borrowed skin,

Each step a scream I keep within,

The past a shadow sharp and wide,

A ghost that never steps aside.

I claw for peace in books and breath,

But healing’s not the same as death,

To **** the pain is not the cure,

When wounds, though closed, still feel unsure.


They say ‘accept’, as if it’s small,

Like getting back up when you fall,

But trauma’s more like breathing air,

It happens, and it’s always there.

It haunts my dreams, over again,
A raging fire in silent shame,

It whispers when the room is still,
‘You’re here, but not - you never will.’


I tried to suppress, outrun the truth,
Rebuild a life worth living too,

But memory has teeth and claws,

It drags you back, highlights the flaws.

To ‘radically accept’ the fire,

Not to forgive, not to admire,

But to say: yes, this was done,

And not deny what I’ve become.


Yet every time I plant a stake,

The ground beneath me starts to quake.

I get up again and try stand tall,

My past still waits to watch me fall.


The path from Hell is not escape,

It’s standing still and facing shape.

It’s feeling grief without defence,

It’s mourning what did not make sense.

Acceptance isn’t love or peace,

It’s choosing presence piece by piece.

It’s letting sorrow have its day,

And living in spite, anyway.


So when the past claws at my door,

I need to breathe, feel to the core.

It’s not to fight, and not flee,

It’s just part of what makes me, me

I’m holding in a scream that no one hears,

Heavy with echoes from my younger years,

A childhood stolen, not misplaced,
I hung my head, took up no space.


Hands that should have held with care,

Taught me to vanish, not to dare.
As a mother, I had a purpose too,
But it’s to help them not need you.
What once defined me fades to grey.

My purpose shifts, then slips away.

At work, I shaped a thriving team,
Built up others self-esteem.

But now they soar, and I recede,

A rootless tree, without a need.

The pride is real, the pain is too,

Who am I, if not what I do?

The friends who once might understand,

Now drift like waves away from sand.
‘Come celebrate another year?’
There’s no response,
Like I’m not here.

I’m hoping somewhere in this ache,

A kinder self might start to wake.

Not mother, worker, friend, wife, child,

But something deeper, fierce and wild.

A soul not shaped by others' view,

But rising, honest, raw and true.

Trapped in the push and pull of time,

A soul divided, theirs and mine.

A will to live, and a wish to die.
Wanting to drown, and learning to fly.

I've known the taste of  acid rain,

The prison I have built from pain
Where fear has such a stranglehold,
And worthlessness is daily told.

To feel better feels wrong
Betrayal, almost.

Thoughts too engrained to leave their host.

This ache, my cradle, the dark, my shame,

To let it go feels much the same.


I’m edging blind towards the fire,

Not knowing if it’ll burn or inspire.
I crave the light and fear its glare,
What if I don’t deserve to live there?

What if the sun highlights my scars?

And I am left adrift, afar.
Exposed, uncertain, undefined,

No longer tethered to my mind?

The dialectic claws and cries

‘You hate the pain and feed lies,

You are blinded and have open eyes’.
So I am both the wound and healer,
The killer and the gentle feeler.


I want to change and fear the cost,
Of all I was, and all I’ve lost.
But maybe there's no clean escape,
Just softer edges on the shape.


Maybe growth is not a leap,

But choosing, slowly, what to keep.
With truths that hurt, and truths that soothe.
For in this war, I seek a truce,

A dialectic, not abuse.


Where I can learn to breathe,
To be
Myself beyond my history.