|
| |
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.
Copyright ©
Sarah Moncada
|
|