“I don’t want to die,  
but I wouldn’t mind disappearing.”  
It’s not the end I long for,  
but the silence of something breaking—  
the stillness after the storm.  
There’s a shadow wrapped around my ribs,  
a weight that murmurs  
there’s no escape but unraveling.  

It’s not life I wish to leave behind,  
but the parts of me that feel too heavy to carry.  
The doubts that root me to the ground,  
the thoughts that keep replaying,  
until I forget who I was  
before the noise began.  

Sometimes, we crave a small death—  
not of the body,  
but of the self we’ve outgrown.  
The pieces of us that hold too tight,  
that shrink us to fit a life  
we no longer belong to.  

But maybe it’s not death I need.  
Maybe it’s a breaking open.  
A shedding of the old,  
a step beyond the walls I’ve built.  
Past the fear, past the doubt—  
to a place where life breathes lighter,  
where I can feel the weight of the sun  
instead of the weight of myself.  

Still, before I can begin again,  
I must stand still.  
I must face the quiet ache  
of what I’ve buried inside me.  
The pain, the questions, the glimmers of hope—  
they are mine to hold,  
and only by holding them  
can I begin to let them go.  

So I ask myself:  
Who do I want to be?  
And who would you be,  
if you let yourself begin again?  
What thoughts, what choices,  
could carry us closer to the lives we crave?  

I am learning to trust myself,  
to feel joy in the smallest cracks of light—  
the warmth of the sun breaking through clouds,  
the sound of laughter I almost forgot was mine.  
I hold onto gratitude,  
even when it feels fragile,  
and slowly, the darkness softens its grip.  

I step outside,  
leaving the noise behind,  
and feel the world exhale.  
I meet myself here—  
the fears I’ve avoided,  
the voice I’ve silenced.  
And maybe,  
just maybe,  
I don’t want to disappear anymore.  

I want to live.  
Not survive.  
Live.  
To let the waves crash over me,  
to rise again,  
and find that I have always been enough.