You tried to speak...
But the words won’t come out.
They curl in your chest like smoke,
choking the shout.
Air barely escapes your lungs,
as if silence has sewn
your ribs into a cage
and named it home.
You’re drowning.
But not in oceans; in open rooms.
The ceiling blinks like hospital moons.
Water floods where your voice gave out,
filling the hollow your hope once sprouted.
You always thought
you wanted to die.
But when your fingers slipped,
you clawed at life.
And that’s when truth
pulled up a chair…
Death only teaches
when it’s already there.
It stared you down,
with hollow eyes,
and you saw your soul
no disguise.
It didn’t scream...
It didn’t rage...
It ust watched,
as you turned the page.
You cut
but never too deep.
Enough to feel,
but not enough to sleep.
The sting was real,
but fleeting, brief
a substitute...
for silent grief.
The pain scared you,
but not as much
as the people outside,
the words, the touch
the weight of being
"okay" each day,
the lies you whispered
when they'd say...
"Are you fine?"
"Are you alright?"
And you’d just nod,
too tired to fight.
You took the pills
a calculated flood,
enough to flirt
but not to flood.
They should've carried you...
to quiet ends,
but only wheeled you
to white-lit bends.
Oh, not again
It's a hospital bed,
not a deathbed call.
Machines that beep,
white coats in the hall.
Oh, I guess....
the pills didn't work
and next you've got
the bitter taste...
of “not quite gone,”
and questions like,
"What went wrong?"
You’ve written more goodbyes poems...
than the years you’ve lived.
Each one stained...
with all you give.
Some you burned,
some you hid,
some just sat
where you never did.
Yet you write them still,
as if each word bleeds,
hoping one day
your ink recedes.
That the pen runs dry,
and with its breath
you vanish softly,
into death.
But here's the truth
you’ve come to pen
You’re here. You’re cracked.
But not the end.
And maybe pain
has taught you more
than silence ever did before.
So you write
not to say goodbye…
But to empty the scream
you’ve held inside.
To bleed on paper,
not your skin,
To let the healing
slowly begin.
And if someday
the ink runs out
You’ll hold the page,
not fear, not doubt.
Because every line
that you have written,
proves you're still here.
Still fighting.
Still bitten
by the ache
but still breathing.
Still broken
but still believing.