I’ve lost count—
was it the fourth winter or the seventh spring
when the silence curled too tightly around my ribs,
and I mistook it for peace?
When the night stopped being a comfort
and started swallowing me whole?
I’ve lost count—
of how many times I’ve stood at the edge of the thought,
toe curling over the ledge,
heartbeat whispering, ”this time, maybe.”
Of how often I’ve written letters I never mailed,
just to prove to myself I was still worth a goodbye.
There were nights I rehearsed my exit
like a prayer no one would answer—
softly, solemnly,
just in case the universe was listening.
I’ve forgotten the shape of my first goodbye,
but I remember the echo—
how it rang in my bones long after the moment passed,
how it became a second heartbeat,
steady and hollow.
How many bottles did I uncap,
not to swallow,
but to measure the weight of the idea in my palm?
How many bridges did I cross,
wondering if the wind would take mercy
and push me before I had to decide?
I’ve counted calendar days like scars,
tallied time in tear-salted pillowcases,
marked milestones not by celebration,
but by survival.
There’s a number for everything—
beats per minute, breaths per hour,
how long it takes for a wound to scab,
how many milligrams it takes to numb a scream—
but there is no metric
for how many times a soul tries to disappear.
People ask why I’m so tired.
I smile,
because how do you explain
what it means to dig yourself out of your own grave
again and again
with bare, trembling hands?
But still—
I wake up.
Not always because I want to.
Sometimes just because I didn’t succeed.
And yet—
I’m still here.
Tired, yes.
Heavy with ghosts I haven’t named.
But here.
And that has to count for something.
This year has been overwhelming, to say the least. But through it all, I’ve been fighting—holding on, trying to stay grounded just a little longer, enough to heal and find myself again. I want to express my deep gratitude to this community, which has been a place of solace when I needed it most. To those who have listened to my vents, offered comfort, or simply acknowledged my pain, your presence has meant more than words can capture. Your quiet support has been a lifeline, and I am truly thankful for it.
