They say the fear kicks in
halfway down.
The breath you didn’t think you wanted
comes clawing up your throat,
the ground becomes too real,
and life—
suddenly, violently—
feels too short to leave behind.

They say that’s when it hits you.
That bolt of regret.
That desperate gasp.
That scream your mind makes
when your body is already committed.

But what if mine never comes?

What if I’ve stood
on this ledge so long
the fall feels like flying?

What if I’ve rehearsed the silence
so often
that even the rush of air
couldn’t pull a heartbeat
from this chest?

They say halfway down
is a revelation—
but my eyes stay shut.
My fists stay unclenched.
My lungs stay quiet.

I watch that horse fall
again and again—
a warning dressed as poetry.
That moment
where everything becomes
too real,
too late.

And I wish it scared me.

But it doesn’t.

Because I don’t believe
I’d feel that panic.
I don’t believe
my hands would reach back.
I don’t believe
regret would bloom like they say.

Because I’ve already fallen—
so many times,
without ever leaving the ground.

And maybe that’s worse.
To still be standing
and already halfway gone.

To look at life
through the lens of a last moment
and feel
nothing.

Because if there’s a view
from halfway down,
I’ve been staring at it for years—
and it never blinked.
And neither did I—

Alien.

That’s all it takes.
Say it enough times—
with enough pride,
with enough certainty,
say it like it’s harmless—
and you start to believe it.
You convince yourself some people
don’t belong here.
That some lives weigh less.
That some suffering is acceptable.
And soon,
you forget they were ever people to begin with.

This is where it begins.
Not with camps.
Not with walls.
With words—
small, familiar, deadly.
Words that divide.
Words that erase.
Words that strip humanity away
layer by layer,
until you look at a person
and only see a problem.

And what happens next?
We dress it up.
We call it safety.
We call it policy.
We call it normal.

But let’s not pretend.

Alligator Alcatraz is not a policy.
It’s not a technicality.
It’s not safety.
It’s a concentration camp.
Built by people who learned nothing
from the blood their ancestors drowned in.

And I am from Germany.
I know this pattern.
I know how fast words become walls.
How quickly division becomes destruction.
How easily neighbors become strangers,
become threats,
become numbers.

We screamed it into history books—
Never again.
We tattooed it across generations.
We carved it into memorials.
We taught it in classrooms.
We promised.

But promises mean nothing
if we look away now.

It never starts with gas chambers.
It starts with small lines—
borders,
walls,
categories.
It starts with us and them.
When fear speaks louder.
When division feels safer than empathy.
When language poisons the foundation
before anyone notices.
It starts
when people feel so distant,
so different,
that hurting them feels justified.

And I’ll say it plainly—
You cannot be neutral while this happens.
You either fight—
or you help them build the fences.

Because it always ends the same way—
with camps,
with cages,
with bodies counted in hindsight,
and the world pretending
no one saw it coming.

But we do see it coming.
We see it now.
And if we refuse to speak,
if we refuse to fight—

history isn’t repeating itself.
We are repeating it.

When I was little,
I thought I’d grow up
and become someone
that glittered.

Not famous.
Not rich.
Just soft.
Just full of light.
Someone who laughed without flinching
and felt safe in her own skin.
Someone who saved the day
and got to sleep through the night.

I thought growing up
meant choosing your favorite ice cream
at midnight,
meant late-night dances in the kitchen,
meant freedom with a ribbon tied around it.

I didn’t know
it meant silence in hospital beds
and scars you don’t show.

I didn’t know
that being alive would ever feel
so close to being lost.

I didn’t imagine this.

When I was nine,
I made wishes on stars.
I believed in fairy godmothers,
second chances,
and that every sad ending
was just a chapter
before the miracle.

But my miracle must’ve gotten stuck somewhere
between foster care statistics
and the wrong people with the wrong intentions,
between school hallways
and rooms where no one listened
until I screamed.

I didn’t think
growing up meant learning
how to be quiet enough
to stay safe.

Didn’t think it meant
counting calories
and skipped meals
and mistakes you can’t scrub off.

Didn’t think
it would be this hard
to get out of bed
on a Tuesday.

No one told me
that sometimes the monsters win.
And they don’t have fangs
or claws—
just names and job titles
and the ability
to be believed.

The girl I used to be
wouldn’t recognize me now.
She’d ask why I stopped painting,
why I’m always tired,
why I never dance in the kitchen anymore.
She’d ask
what happened to magic.
And I wouldn’t know
how to answer.

Because I don’t want to tell her
that sometimes the world
breaks you
before you have the words
to explain the damage.

That sometimes
you survive things
so dark
you can’t ever go back
to who you were
before.

And I don’t want to see her face
when I say that dreams
don’t come true
just because you want them to.

That no matter how bright your heart is,
there are places so cold
even hope shivers.

But still—
I hope she never stops wishing.
Because I don’t know who I’d be
if I didn’t remember
how she used to believe.

And sometimes,
on quiet nights,
I still look up
at the same stars
and wonder
if maybe
she’s still in there somewhere.

If maybe
there’s still time
to become someone
she’d be proud of.

My little sister called me tonight.
Her voice cracked before she even said hello.
She saw the heart I typed,
and thought I was saying goodbye.

She shouldn’t have to live like this—
bracing herself
every time I answer too slowly,
learning to read my silences
like warning signs.

She’s just a kid.
My baby.
The one I used to tuck in
and promise monsters weren’t real.

But now I am the monster.
Not to her.
Never to her.
But to myself.

I am the nightmare she can’t wake up from.
The danger she can’t punch away.
The reason she checks her phone
like it’s a lifeline
and a bomb
at the same time.

And I hate it.
I hate that she’s learning
to live on edge
because of me.
Because I might break
and take her with me.

So maybe—
maybe the kindest thing I could do
is just end it.

Once.

Not again and again
in panicked calls and whispered fears
and “I love you”s that sound too final.
Not in sirens or hospital beds
or birthdays where I couldn’t come.

Just once.
One clean tear through the timeline.
One scream.
One silence.
And then nothing.

She’d cry,
yes.
But she’d stop being afraid.

She wouldn’t have to wonder anymore.
Wouldn’t have to scan my messages
for signs of collapse.
Wouldn’t have to carry
this slow, rotting dread
that her sister might be dying
in a place she can’t reach.

Maybe grief
would be easier than fear.

Maybe heartbreak
would feel like freedom
after years of holding her breath.

I think about that a lot.

How maybe
the kindest thing I could ever do for her
is disappear.

What is grief,  
if not love  
wandering in search of a home?

It lingers in hollow spaces,  
quiet corners of empty rooms,  
whispering to walls  
that no longer echo back.

Grief is love without a pulse—  
a heartbeat still waiting for an answer,  
a name spoken into silence,  
hoping for an echo  
that will never come.

But still,  
I need it to become something.  
To sprout wings  
or take root in the soil—  
to turn into something I can hold:  
a garden,  
a letter,  
a breath.  
Something to name the weight.

Grief is love unbound—  
it spills,  
it seeps,  
it finds the cracks in days and nights,  
asking, always asking:  
Where now?

And yet—  
grief moves.  
It carries yesterday’s tenderness  
into tomorrow’s hands,  
grows roots in memory,  
builds altars from the ache,  
finds its place  
in every sunrise,  
every tear  
that softens the ground.

Grief is love  
that will not rest,  
will not relent.

But one day, I believe—  
it will bloom.