One morning,
I stood before the mirror
my losses etched across my face.
Staring back was someone who despised me.
How cruel self-loathing can be.
Some days, memory drags me
to my harshest hours
to an old love in an older heart,
to the moment my convictions shifted.
I never left people without reason,
yet I could never fill
the voids they left behind.
A wound, dealt by those I cherished,
taught me this:
those closest
are often the ones we most need to leave.
Only one truth remains
my reflection’s love endures.
But the love of others?
A myth I can no longer believe.
And what is the soul’s departure
if not an ending?
For death doesn’t always come in silence.
How many of the living
do I already treat
as if they’re gone?