The walls taste of my own fear.
I count the cracks in the ceiling
like tiny graves for the words I never said.
Fingers that should have held me
grabbed instead, left scratches of fire.
I learned to curl into myself
until my scars whispered apologies
for existing at all.
I walk through mornings like a phantom
and no one sees the weight I drag
behind my eyes,
no one hears the storms I swallow
before anyone notices my voice is gone.
I am young and vulnerable
and every mirror is a question:
How much of me can survive
before the world forgets my name,
How much of me will be taken in shame.
Sometimes I imagine hands
that don’t hurt,
Or take of my body
a voice that doesn’t make me flinch,
but even then, I taste the salt of tears
I cannot stop,
and the air shivers with what I have lost,
Am I a person or just another object of desire.
Apr 8
Apr 8, 2026 at 11:25 AM UTC
The walls taste of my own fear.
I count the cracks in the ceiling
like tiny graves for the words I never said.
Fingers that should have held me
grabbed instead, left scratches of fire.
I learned to curl into myself
until my scars whispered apologies
for existing at all.
I walk through mornings like a phantom
and no one sees the weight I drag
behind my eyes,
no one hears the storms I swallow
before anyone notices my voice is gone.
I am young and vulnerable
and every mirror is a question:
How much of me can survive
before the world forgets my name,
How much of me will be taken in shame.
Sometimes I imagine hands
that don’t hurt,
Or take of my body
a voice that doesn’t make me flinch,
but even then, I taste the salt of tears
I cannot stop,
and the air shivers with what I have lost,
Am I a person or just another object of desire.
Vulnerable me