I feel nothing.
The world tells me I should feel joy,
that justice should taste like freedom,
but my chest is quiet —
hollow, still, unsure.
No happiness,
no sadness,
no victory.
Just the silence that follows the storm.
They say I’ve been heard,
that I’ve been believed,
but the words drift through me
like a breeze through broken glass —
touching everything, fixing nothing.
I can’t rejoice in your pain,
not like you did in mine.
I can’t find peace in your punishment,
because my wounds don’t close that way.
I thought justice would heal me,
that truth would set my heart alight.
But the fire never came —
only embers,
soft and tired,
fading beneath the weight of everything.
Maybe I should feel more.
Maybe one day I will.
But right now,
I just feel nothing —
and maybe that,
after all I’ve endured,
is feeling enough.
Oct 17, 2025
Oct 17, 2025 at 10:06 AM UTC
I feel nothing.
The world tells me I should feel joy,
that justice should taste like freedom,
but my chest is quiet —
hollow, still, unsure.
No happiness,
no sadness,
no victory.
Just the silence that follows the storm.
They say I’ve been heard,
that I’ve been believed,
but the words drift through me
like a breeze through broken glass —
touching everything, fixing nothing.
I can’t rejoice in your pain,
not like you did in mine.
I can’t find peace in your punishment,
because my wounds don’t close that way.
I thought justice would heal me,
that truth would set my heart alight.
But the fire never came —
only embers,
soft and tired,
fading beneath the weight of everything.
Maybe I should feel more.
Maybe one day I will.
But right now,
I just feel nothing —
and maybe that,
after all I’ve endured,
is feeling enough.