I don’t want to die.
Not in the casual, throwaway way people whisper
when the day feels too long.
I mean it,
bone-deep,
gut-wrung,
eyes-open kind of meaning.
I want to live.
Live like clawing through brambles,
live like reaching out even when your hand comes back bloodied.
Live for my love,
for the name I say soft into my pillow.
Live in defiance,
of statistics, of shame, of silence.
Live because I owe it to the small, stubborn voice in me
that refused to be quieted
even when everything else said
enough.
And I do.
I do.
I live in the same way a match might survive a downpour:
Not dry, not safe,
but still sparking.
It would be easier if I didn’t want to.
If I could fold myself back into the silence.
If I could slip off this skin
like an over-worn coat
and lay still.
It’s the wanting that wounds.
To want this life
when it’s barbed and broken,
when the mirror gives you a thousand names
and none of them are sanctuary.
The world hands me reasons I shouldn’t.
Little black seeds of no,
planted in my teeth,
growing vines down my throat
until it hurts to speak my own name.
I found my whys,
a constellation carved into the underside of my ribs.
But every time I trace them,
someone hands me a knife
and tells me to redraw the sky.
It’s a cruel thing,
to carry hope like a wound.
To walk through this with your chest cracked open
and your reasons fluttering out like butterflies
no one believes in.
Living hurts.
My why is a bruise in motion.
It is a song only I can hear,
and even I sometimes doubt its music.
But I keep humming it,
low in my bones.
I live.
Because the wanting
won’t let me go.
And I won’t
let it die.
Apr 7
Apr 7, 2026 at 4:57 AM UTC
I don’t want to die.
Not in the casual, throwaway way people whisper
when the day feels too long.
I mean it,
bone-deep,
gut-wrung,
eyes-open kind of meaning.
I want to live.
Live like clawing through brambles,
live like reaching out even when your hand comes back bloodied.
Live for my love,
for the name I say soft into my pillow.
Live in defiance,
of statistics, of shame, of silence.
Live because I owe it to the small, stubborn voice in me
that refused to be quieted
even when everything else said
enough.
And I do.
I do.
I live in the same way a match might survive a downpour:
Not dry, not safe,
but still sparking.
It would be easier if I didn’t want to.
If I could fold myself back into the silence.
If I could slip off this skin
like an over-worn coat
and lay still.
It’s the wanting that wounds.
To want this life
when it’s barbed and broken,
when the mirror gives you a thousand names
and none of them are sanctuary.
The world hands me reasons I shouldn’t.
Little black seeds of no,
planted in my teeth,
growing vines down my throat
until it hurts to speak my own name.
I found my whys,
a constellation carved into the underside of my ribs.
But every time I trace them,
someone hands me a knife
and tells me to redraw the sky.
It’s a cruel thing,
to carry hope like a wound.
To walk through this with your chest cracked open
and your reasons fluttering out like butterflies
no one believes in.
Living hurts.
My why is a bruise in motion.
It is a song only I can hear,
and even I sometimes doubt its music.
But I keep humming it,
low in my bones.
I live.
Because the wanting
won’t let me go.
And I won’t
let it die.
A bit of a ramble over some emotional turmoil tbh
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