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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.
Copyright ©
Amar Nasreddine
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