Tag: identity

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.