I Wasn't Built to be Held

They say grief comes in waves, but mine is a tide that never learned to leave. It rests beneath my skin like a secret bruise— blue, purple, black where it used to bloom red. I carry silence like a language no one taught me how to unlearn. You told me I was too much, too loud, too sharp, too everything to be loved like something fragile. So I became the porcelain doll you wouldn’t dare drop— and somehow still ended up shattered. There’s a photo of me on my mother’s shelf— smiling, before I learned how to perfect the art of pretending. Before I knew that being “fine” was a costume you wear when you're dying beautifully. I wrote letters I never sent, to people who left like I had a choice. I kissed ghosts in my sleep and woke up tasting ash— as if love was a fire and I was stupid enough to think I could keep warm without burning. Tell me, how do you heal from the kind of hurt that says your name with a voice softer than your own? How do you grieve someone who still breathes but no longer looks at you like you’re made of stars? No, I wasn’t built to be held. I was sculpted from storms and saltwater, from everything soft that learned to bite. I am the aftertaste of what could’ve been, a lullaby that never put anyone to sleep, a home with too many rooms and not enough visitors. Still— I leave the porch light on. Just in case.