To scream into the void or let silence devour me whole?
To claw at the seams of this waking dream,
or accept that I was never awake?

To be the mad one or the blind one?
To whisper the truth no one wants to hear,
or let the lie cradle me to sleep?

They fear death like a stranger,
but I swear, I’ve known it before.
Soft. Familiar. Calling me home.

So is it better to speak or to die?
Or was I dead long before I asked?

in the end of it
you are alone with it
and when the men stare at you
and ridicule you
their fingers pointing at your body

    you sit there and laugh
    your heart out
    i could
    take it out

        i chose to break the silence
        when no one had my back
        but the cold stone wall

           /stuck in headlights/

              your back to the wall
              to fight alone
              tonight is the night
              i end you

                 and no one understands
                 the depth of it
                 until they take my shoes
                 but they come to realize
                 they dont fit them

                    it ends tonight
                    with the morning light
                    a woman's grief
                    a fiery pit

This moment is just a dream,
An illusion of a greater being
And once the cold death
Gave us it's warm embrace
We will fall into silence
As we wake up to see the reality.

If so, then why plague your mind with worry?
If this is just a dream, then why are you experiencing it in tragedy
When you can easily make it into comedy.

I imagine it sometimes—the letter you never wrote,
the words you almost said, the truth that trembled on your lips
but died before it could escape.

Would it have been an apology? A confession?
Or merely a quiet acknowledgment
of everything left unsaid between us?

Perhaps you sat in the dim glow of a dying candle,
pen in hand, staring at the paper
as if the weight of your thoughts
was too much for ink to bear.

Perhaps you wrote the first few lines,
hesitated, crossed them out,
and in that hesitation,
decided that silence was easier.

Or perhaps you never meant to write at all.
Perhaps you knew, as I did,
that some words are better left unspoken,
some wounds better left untouched.

And so, the letter remains unwritten,
just as we remain unfinished—
a story with no ending,
a question that will never be answered.