"it's a marathon, not a sprint."

so i kept running, ignoring the cracks below me —
i don’t know whether my legs grew weak
or if the world sped up,
but the air slipped away.

smiling sometimes, for the crowd.
tears blurred my vision
and my lungs burned
but still, i ran.

until i hit the ground,
hard.
blood in my teeth,
salt water splashed across the
sidewalk,
the taste of iron and shame in my mouth.

i think about it now —
if i had just stopped,
just once,
maybe i could’ve caught my breath.
maybe i wouldn’t have
    fallen  
        so      
          hard.

Does my clarinet  
blame herself  
when she  

screeches?  

I asked her —  
careful  
not to press  
the wrong buttons.  

She hummed along,  
nodded  
like a good girl.  

(𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵?)

I’m the one  
who blows  
down her throat,  
pressing keys  
until she forgets  
how to breathe.  

Her voice cracked —  
guilt hung in the air  
like smoke.  

"𝘪 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘯,"
she whispered.  
"𝘮𝘺 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦."

I strike her notes harder.  
She chokes out bits,  
broken pieces  
that only make me angrier.  

Your wheezing is because  
you’re fragile.  
Cheap.  
Not because of me.  

(...𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵?)

"𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶,"
she sobbed.  

And I  
almost told her —  
𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗹𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝘆 𝗱𝗼.

But the truth  
lodged in my throat,  
behind the breath  
that made her scream.

im getting better
but im scared for the downfall

The crack in the sidewalk is my only comfort.
We've become friends overtime,
I tell her about the bottles and beer cans,
so lost I forget about the aches and pains.

She knows it's bad when I'm quiet.
I sit with the dark and listen to my sobs echo,
the rain can't drown out my thoughts.
The crack in the sidewalk is my only comfort.

Sometimes I go weeks without seeing her,
my identity drifts softly away with the tide.
Confused, I am too weak to find ground,
maybe it's best I cannot be saved.

The water leads me to my friend,
I shiver yet I cannot feel the cold.
She tells me that she's here for me,
the crack in the sidewalk is my only comfort.

Kneel beyond my throne, unaware it was born of lies.
Eyes linger on my every move, whispers shouting.
Am I meant to replicate perfection, or just die trying?
Cold smiles approach, thinking they have uncovered my tell-tale heart.

But I am a seasoned ghost.

Being raised to suffer, I have learned to hide.
To mold myself to fit the standards.
To grit my teeth and stand still as my form shifts once again.
Knowing the brief seconds of waking are a soft euphoria I will soon miss.

I wake to a dawn meant only for the dying.

I wake to reset my own jaw,
bending my bones backwards
with the occasional crack,
a ritual ensuring I resemble something human.

People believe I am powerful, successful, happy,
(but i am as fragile as frost on a window touched by morning).
My costume is convincing, but cannot change what I am.
Invisibly so, and so the pretending continues.