His fists were not fists
but heated iron
burning rods pressed into skin,
a language written in bruises
I never agreed to learn.
Each strike bloomed slow and ugly,
purple galaxies under my ribs,
stars bursting behind my eyes
while the room stayed silent
and watched.
I remember the floor most
how it rushed up to meet me
like an old friend.
How breathing turned to shards,
how my lungs folded in on themselves
like paper ashamed of its own trembling.
Then morning
Wires clinging to my chest,
cords draped over me
like vines claiming a fallen house.
The world humming in monitors,
steady beeps where my heartbeat
was supposed to feel like mine.
I tried to lift my hands
and found mountains at my wrists.
Tried to swallow air
and found it thick as wet cement.
The world sat heavy at my feet,
an anchor tied to bones
that no longer felt like home.
Outside the window
cars kept moving,
people kept laughing,
the sky refused to dim for me.
It is a strange thing
to be alive
and feel left behind
to watch the world
step over your body
like you are only a shadow
cooling on the pavement.
And still
Somewhere beneath the wires,
beneath the ache,
beneath the memory of iron
a pulse.
Small.
Stubborn.
Refusing to be quiet.
Feb 12
Feb 12, 2026 at 10:23 PM UTC
His fists were not fists
but heated iron
burning rods pressed into skin,
a language written in bruises
I never agreed to learn.
Each strike bloomed slow and ugly,
purple galaxies under my ribs,
stars bursting behind my eyes
while the room stayed silent
and watched.
I remember the floor most
how it rushed up to meet me
like an old friend.
How breathing turned to shards,
how my lungs folded in on themselves
like paper ashamed of its own trembling.
Then morning
Wires clinging to my chest,
cords draped over me
like vines claiming a fallen house.
The world humming in monitors,
steady beeps where my heartbeat
was supposed to feel like mine.
I tried to lift my hands
and found mountains at my wrists.
Tried to swallow air
and found it thick as wet cement.
The world sat heavy at my feet,
an anchor tied to bones
that no longer felt like home.
Outside the window
cars kept moving,
people kept laughing,
the sky refused to dim for me.
It is a strange thing
to be alive
and feel left behind
to watch the world
step over your body
like you are only a shadow
cooling on the pavement.
And still
Somewhere beneath the wires,
beneath the ache,
beneath the memory of iron
a pulse.
Small.
Stubborn.
Refusing to be quiet.
