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Poem
Oh my God—
if only he knew
that drowning doesn't look like thrashing,
it looks like stillness.
Like bleeding ink
onto walls that won’t answer back.

We could’ve saved him—
or maybe he could’ve saved me.
But instead, we decorate
our breakdowns with blackout curtains,
counting hours like they’re sins
we committed in silence.

He said the nights were far too long.
I said this is just the start of it.
Because time doesn’t tick—
it scratches,
it claws beneath the skin
like regret in the shape of memory.

My knuckles are red with poems
I couldn’t write,
my mouth full of screams
that sound too much
like apologies,
like “I’m fine”
muttered through broken teeth.

The tainted clock
is counting down faster and fast—
but what’s time to a mind
that loops like static,
begging the signal to come back?

Stand up and scream,
they told me,
but I only knew how to whisper
through clenched fists.
My voice was a razor
I kept hidden
in the back of my throat.

The tears that stain my cheeks
must make me look weak,
but I wear them proud—
each one a badge
for battles that never made the news.

Your knife, my back.
My gun, your head.
This is love in the language
of survival.
This is what trust looks like
when it’s duct-taped and loaded,
when intimacy tastes
like copper and apologies.

You need a doctor, baby?
You scared?
You should be—
because this isn’t healing.
This is remembering
exactly where it hurt,
and learning to limp forward anyway.

If only he knew—
that blood and ink
are just different ways
of writing a last goodbye.
That sometimes
your body becomes the journal
no one was meant to read.

That the wall I punched
wasn’t just drywall—
it was every empty promise,
every silent scream
I swallowed for the sake of peace.

Oh my God—
if only he knew
what it costs to carry on
when the weight isn't physical,
when the ghosts you fight
wear your own face.
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