I break too easily.
crying at nothing,
shattering at everything.

The world calls it
too much,
too loud,
too fragile to be worth holding.

I twist in my own skin,
a mess of nerves,
a storm that never quiets.

Useless, I whisper to myself,
useless as paper in the rain,
melting, tearing,
never strong enough
to carry anything.

Even love cuts its hands on me
and I hate that,
hate that I ruin
what little I’m given.

So I play the part:
the hysterical shadow,
the one who feels too deep,
too wrong,
too endlessly broken.

But still,
under the noise,
I breathe.
Still here.
Even when I don’t know why.