For years,
I’ve stared into myself, tried to name the shadows that linger there.
Each flaw, each crack in my surface,
the places where I come undone, unravel quietly
like threads pulled from a fragile seam.
I know I am kind—
to others.
I know I am compassionate—
when they need it most.
But to myself?
I’m unsure, disconnected, unable to reach the core of who I am
or maybe who I once was.

I’ve searched for answers in the endless mirrors of introspection,
taken tests, quizzes, anything that might help me
hold a fragment of truth,
to say:
“This is me, all of me.”
But every answer slips away before I can grasp it,
just out of reach,
like trying to catch mist in my hands.

There are parts of me I’ve always kept locked away,
unspoken, unseen.
I’ve tried to name them,
but the words stick in my throat,
cowardly whispers that never see the light of day.
And still, they linger,
those pieces of myself I refuse to admit.
The good and the bad,
all tangled together in a knot I cannot untie.

For years, I’ve felt hollow.
That ache, it’s always been there,
but I kept it hidden, tucked away in the quiet corners of my heart.
I told myself I could manage it,
that it wasn’t real,
that I was strong enough to keep it at bay.
But it’s grown, festering,
deeper and more painful as the days passed.
And now,
it’s something I can no longer ignore.

I tried to fight it, I did.
I wrote poems, let my words bleed onto the page,
hoping they’d carry the weight of it away.
But they never did.
The ache lingered,
etched into every line, every verse,
seen by those who could truly see,
those who chose to ignore,
and even those who pretended not to notice.
It’s become part of me, woven into my thoughts,
my touch, my very being.
Now it’s everywhere,
crawling into the spaces between me and the world,
and I know—
they see it too.

What I thought I could hide,
what I thought no one would ever see,
is now clear as day,
glaring like an open wound.
This hollow ache,
the thing that gnaws at me,
it’s no longer just mine.
It has spilled into my reality,
into the lives of everyone around me.
They feel it, even if they don’t know what it is.
Or maybe they do.
Maybe they’ve always known.

I’ve tried to name it,
tried to resist it,
but now I finally see it for what it is.
This emptiness, this ache that has followed me for years,
it’s a plague.
A plague that’s swallowed my generation whole,
that’s consumed my friends, my family,
left them hollow, just like me.
I never thought I’d be one of them.
I never thought it would take me too.
But here I am,
succumbing to it,
unwillingly so,
yet powerless to stop it.

And it hurts.
It hurts more than I can put into words,
more than anyone could ever understand.
I cry for what I’ve lost,
for what I can never seem to find—
that sense of wholeness, of being alive.
I ache for it,
but it slips further away with each passing day.

Still,
I can’t give in,
not completely.
As much as I want to rest,
as much as I want to close my eyes and let the ache consume me,
I can’t.
There’s too much left to do,
too many people I love,
too much life left to live.
And I know, somewhere deep down,
there has to be hope.
There has to be.
Even if it feels like a lie,
even if it feels like I’ll never feel whole again,
I have to believe—
maybe one day, I’ll feel alive.

But even as I say it,
I wonder if I’m lying to myself,
to everyone around me.
Because the truth is,
I’ve already succumbed.
I succumbed a long time ago.
I’ve just been biding my time,
waiting for it to take everything.
And now,
it’s almost done.