I am the draft in the hallway,
the door that never shuts quite right.
You step inside,
but the warmth slips away—
I cannot hold it.

I paint the walls in vibrant hues,
yet when I turn,
the colors are already fading,
peeling into cracks
I can never seal.

I fill the rooms with furniture,
trying to make this place ours,
but I drape them in white sheets,
leaving them to gather dust.

You open the windows wide,
and I pull the curtains closed.
You knock at the door,
and I cannot always let you in.

And sometimes I fear
I’ve trapped us in this hollow place,
when you deserve a home
and not these half-lived walls
between here and nowhere.

I wonder if one day
you’ll walk these empty halls
and decide not to return
because I never learned
how to make a house a home.

Depression is not dimness—
it is burning too bright,
a flare that rips open the silence
of an otherwise endless night.

You shine, not softly,
but like a star straining
against the weight of its own fire,
a brilliance so fierce
it begins to devour itself.

The world sees only the glitter,
not the exhaustion behind it,
not the marrow turned to fuel,
not the ache of carrying light
meant for galaxies.

And then—
a sudden quiet.
No fading, no warning,
just absence.
A blink,
a hollow in the sky where you once were,
the darkness swallowing your name.

Sometimes a crack
is the only place
that lights gets though.

And I’m starting to see-
maybe I’m not broken
maybe I’m finally healing.