The Hurt I Can’t Name

Don’t tell me to soften it.

Don’t tell me to pretty it up.

The darkness in me isn’t gentle

and it sure as hell isn’t poetic.

Some nights the ache gets so loud

I swear my skin hums with it,

buzzing with a restlessness

that wants out,

wants release,

wants something sharp enough

to quiet the storm underneath.

I pace the room like an animal

looking for an escape hatch

from my own ribs.

Every breath burns.

Every thought bruises.

And the only language my pain speaks

is urgency.

I hate that I understand it.

I hate that it calls to me

in a voice that sounds like mine.

I hate the part of me that listens.

But I don’t give in.

I just sit there, shaking,

hands curled into fists,

fighting a battle

no one sees

and no one applauds.

And when the wave finally breaks,

when the urge loosens its grip,

I’m left exhausted,

hollowed out,

alive —

but barely.

Tell me again it’s “just a phase.”

Tell me again to “think positive.”

Tell me again that I’m “strong.”

I’m not strong.

I’m surviving myself

one night at a time.