Rock Bottom Has a Basement
I told them I was fine on Tuesday night.
I lied so smooth it barely felt like lying—
just breath shaped wrong, just practiced, and polished white,
A smile stitched tight enough to stop the crying.
They believed me. Hell, I would have too.
I’ve gotten good at looking like I’m whole.
Built rooms inside myself nobody knew,
then dug beneath them when I needed somewhere lower to go.
Rock bottom has a basement. I found mine.
No windows. Just the pipes and me still breathing.
I’d called “I’m fine” a thousand-dollar lifeline,
while every lie downstairs kept adding interest to the grieving.
I prayed until my prayers felt unemployed.
Asked God for something darkness couldn’t counterfeit.
But silence has a way of making noise
when you’re alone with everything you never dealt with.
I climbed those basement stairs with one bad thought
and enough rope to argue with the ceiling.
Then every reason I believed I’d lost
Came crashing through the cracks I’d sealed beneath my feelings.
The cruelest part? I never disappeared.
I went to work. Came home. Returned each call.
They saw me every day and never feared
that who they loved was barely there at all.
Some graves are dug while you are still alive—
No dirt, no headstone, no flowers where you’ve been.
Your body keeps convincing them you’re doing just fine
while something underneath you caves from within.
Rock bottom has a basement, and I’ve found mine—
I just live one floor above it, making “broken” look “fine.”
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