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.
Jun 5, 2025
Jun 5, 2025 at 12:55 PM UTC
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.
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