the sorrow isn’t poetic
it’s thick
cold
mud that pulls
without mercy

every breath
feels borrowed
from something deeper
that wants me quiet

I move
but nothing lets go—
chains wrapped in memory
hands I never asked to hold me

somewhere in that silence
a spark
quivers
burning bitter in my veins
small
but mine

I don’t know if this is healing
or fury
but I burn
everything behind me
to make room
for something else

the dark doesn’t disappear
it just flinches

and I
with bleeding hands
still climb.