Tag: emotional numbness

  • Numb Enough to Feel Nothing

    I’m fine, trust me —

    or whatever that word means

    when nothing touches me anymore.

    I move through the room

    like a ghost that forgot who it’s haunting,

    hands steady, heartbeat slow,

    mind blank in a way that feels

    almost peaceful

    and almost terrifying.

    The shadows stretch across the wall

    and I don’t flinch.

    I don’t feel anything,

    not fear, not relief —

    just the dull static of existing

    because my body hasn’t learned

    how to stop.

    I tell myself I’m fine

    because it’s easier than explaining

    how quiet it is inside my chest,

    how every emotion slips through my fingers

    before I can decide what to do with it.

    Nothing hurts.

    But nothing heals either.

    I’m just here —

    breathing out of habit,

    living out of muscle memory,

    waiting for something

    to break the silence in my bones.

  • What Have I Become

    What have I become, my sweetest friend,

    when even your silence sounds like judgment?

    When you look at me

    like I’m something you remember

    but don’t recognize anymore.

    I’m made of aftermath now

    of things that didn’t kill me

    but stayed anyway.

    I learned how to survive by shrinking,

    by numbing the sharp edges

    until nothing cut

    and nothing healed.

    I speak in half-truths.

    I smile like it’s a habit I can’t break.

    I carry my worst thoughts

    like contraband

    hidden, heavy, always with me.

    I wasn’t born this hollow.

    I was worn down.

    Sandpapered by time,

    by love that took more than it gave,

    by nights that taught me

    how easy it is to disappear

    without going anywhere.

    If you’re still calling me friend,

    don’t ask me to be better.

    Don’t ask me to go back.

    That person didn’t survive this.

    This is what’s left

    quieter, darker,

    harder to love,

    still breathing

    like that’s supposed to mean something.