The Person Who No Longer Exists

They said, "just live." But they never spoke of the ache that lingers in the marrow— of the fog that swallows names, moments, whole years. I keep hoping the blurs will soften into memory, and the sharp things will forget how to cut. Nothing is easy. Nothing is hard. It's all just weight, wind, waiting. And I— I just want to be something whole. We talk in circles, mourning versions of ourselves who never made it out, pulling sorrow like saltwater from old wounds. It’s exhausting. This becoming. Some days I feel like a fish on the tile floor— eyes wide, mouth open, begging the air to become water again. Flat lines whisper through my pulse. The sky bruises into dusk. Still, I wait for night to come so I can wear dreams like borrowed skin. In those dreams, I remember how it felt to breathe without trembling. To laugh without lying. To be without breaking. And in the dark, I look for the shadow of the one I used to be— hoping she might still answer when I call her name.