I was twelve when the world collapsed—
not loud. No explosion.
Just a silence so thick
it wrapped around my lungs
and stayed there.

They said, “He’s gone.”
Like it was a story ending.
But I was still in the room—
staring at him,
staring at death
in a body I still wanted to hug.

His chest didn’t rise.
His hands were cold.
The room was too bright,
and I couldn’t find my own breath.

My knees hit the floor.
Hard.
I didn’t even feel it.

Since then,
my body became a graveyard.
I carry him in every joint.
I carry him in every bruise
I gave myself in the dark
just to scream without noise.

Some nights,
my chest locks like his did.
Some nights,
I press my fingernails into my skin
just to feel anything other than this ache.

Pain became prayer.
Blood became language.
And the flashbacks—
they’re not just in my mind.
They live in my spine,
my throat,
my hands that shake
when I walk past a hospital,
or see an old man sleep.

I still see him.
In that bed.
Eyes closed,
like he was pretending.
But he wasn’t pretending.
He left.
And took the light with him.

Grandma found me once,
curled in the bathroom,
wrapped around a razor
like it was a lifeline.
She didn’t flinch.
She just sat,
and let the silence breathe.

Then, through her cracked voice, she said:
“When my grandfather died,
the world stopped making sense.
He raised me. He loved me.
And when they buried him,
they buried the only place I ever felt like I mattered.”

“You think this is new?” she whispered.
“Pain’s been passed down
like an heirloom none of us asked for.”

I didn’t speak.
Just shook,
and bled quietly
into the towel I didn’t mean to grab.

Because I know too much now.
I know what grief tastes like—
metallic and sharp.
I know what trauma feels like—
tight skin, locked jaw,
a pulse that races for no reason.

I know how silence can scream.
I know how mirrors can lie.
I know what it’s like
to want to leave
just to stop reliving.

Colors don’t sing anymore.
They hum like warning signs.
But the blue…
The blue still bleeds.
It stains everything he touched.
And I can’t wash it off.

So I whisper at night:
Please.
Stay a little longer.
Let me fall asleep
without the sound of a flatline
echoing in my skull.

Let me be twelve again—
before my arms became maps of pain.
Before I forgot what warmth felt like
that didn’t come from bandages.

I wish I could see the world through those eyes—
the ones that looked at him and saw forever.
But forever lied.
And now I know too much.

Still…
the blue hasn’t faded.
It bleeds,
but it hasn’t gone.

And I wish.
I still wish.

First to arrive at the funeral of warmth,
Last to leave the echo of breath.
What is misery without a mirror?
What is a laugh when lungs collapse?

It’s white outside,
but red claws bloom beneath the snow.
My nose burns with the frostbite’s kiss —
a fire disguised as silence.

I’ll crawl through winter’s teeth
even if the season swallows me whole.
I could meet the end more quickly
if I let go of the brakes.

I carve angels in the snow —
arms spread like surrender —
until I feel holy,
or at least no longer haunted.
If it kills me, I’ll call it trying.
If it kills me…

Smiles are coffins
where secrets rot sweet.
No one lies if no one speaks —
a silence sharp enough to bleed.
The girl in the mirror wears my skin,
but her pulse is paper-thin,
her eyes a grave of me.

I’ll make it through the winter
if the cold doesn’t get curious.
I could fall faster
if I weren’t always catching my own blade.
Still, I shape wings in the ash of snow
hoping to be forgiven
for waking up.

I tried so hard
to stitch the cracks.
I got so far
from myself.
There was a girl —
a wound that walked like love.
I blamed her ghost,
because ghosts are easier than guilt.

But I still search
for her in the warmth of another —
hoping to find the flame
that didn’t burn me.

The seasons change —
grief just shapeshifts.
What fed me then
poisons me now.
I once drank joy from a chalice of ruin,
and called it love.

If I could go back,
I’d still choose the blade that fit my hand.

I’ll make it through the winter, maybe —
but why does time crawl
when you want it to run?
I’ll keep sculpting angels from frost
until the sky thinks I’m enough.

If it kills me,
at least I was reaching.

If it kills me…

I tried.

She’s the middle daughter, full of rage, full of anger.
Full of thoughts no one ever gets to hear, full of thoughts which overwhelm her.
She’s the middle daughter, never the best, always enough to be thrown away to the side.
the one that's always treated unfairly, she overthinks everything far too much, but it is always suppressed within her, her anger, her hatred, her thoughts, her pain, it is all suppressed and caged within her because she fears of being an even bigger burden than she already is on the people around her.
no one ever seems to notice the middle daughter or the pain and suffering she hides and carries all by herself, but it’s definitely there.
It’s not easy to hide the pain, especially not when it starts to get visible on the outside.

⸻

Even the thought of talking makes me feel anxious.
The looks I get, the thoughts of people—I can almost hear them. People laugh about things that, to me, are nightmares. I’m standing in the bakery. Three more people, then it’s my turn. My hands are shaking. My thoughts are spinning so fast I feel like I might pass out. It’s my turn, and all I can do is look at my mom like a little kid, silently begging her to order for me.

I’m sitting in class.
The teacher asks a question, and I know the answer. I should raise my hand—of course I should. I know it. But I don’t.
What if I’m wrong and everyone thinks I’m stupid?
What if they all look at me?
I can already feel the eyes, hear the laughter. I used to laugh too… isn’t laughter something good? No. Not like this. It’s the worst thing that could happen.

My leg starts shaking. My hands are damp. I struggle to breathe. I start fidgeting with my sleeve.
And suddenly… the teacher picks someone else. I missed my chance. Again.
Why can’t I just speak?

It’s not like something bad would really happen. Everyone else talks. Why can’t I? Why is everything so **** embarrassing?
I know I need help—desperately. And even when I had help, I couldn’t use it the way I should’ve. Now it’s gone, and I can’t bring myself to ask for it again. Even if I did, I don’t know if I’d be able to use it right this time.

When does this hellish cycle end?
When will it stop being so humiliating to do simple things—like drinking in public?
When can I finally start living instead of surviving?

No one understands how exhausting it is when everything feels so embarrassing that you lose all your confidence… or worse, can’t even try at all.