I sleep with the curtains drawn,
not to block the sun,
but to remind myself it’s gone.

The walls whisper names I forget
until I’m quiet,
then they scream them instead.

I leave the door open
in case hope walks in,
but all I get is silence.
Heavy. Familiar. Cold.

Some say darkness is just
the absence of light.
I think it’s where the truth hides
when it’s too ashamed to speak.

life used to taste like sugar
now it’s just
something i chew to get by.

I smile like it’s scripted,
pause like there’s a laugh track,
but no one's laughing.

sometimes I look in the mirror
and wonder
if this is the real scene
or just a deleted one.

everyone’s moving,
and I’m stuck
editing myself
for a world that never hits “save.”

am I healing
or just hiding better?

I guess life isn’t a villain,
just a really bad friend.
but i keep texting it anyway.

"Possibility" shouldn’t be questioned
because anything and everything is possible.
Why else is there an “if” in “life”?