Sunday, March 30, 2025

The Art of Falling Quietly

They told me mountains heal; that if I sit still enough,
breathe deep enough, I'll feel whole again.
But all I feel is the earth cracking under me,
the dry, brittle grass clawing at my skin,
and the wind screaming prayers
I no longer believe in.

I used to carry hope; tightly, like a fistful of glass
sharp, glittering, cutting me every time I tried to hold on.  

They called it love. I called it survival.
But who survives like this?
Who drags their heart to the edge of the world
just to watch it bleed out quietly
where no one is looking?

They never broke me; They didn’t have to.
They just took: some of my softness,
more of my belief in tomorrow,
Yes of course, my stupid desperate need to be seen.
They drained me slow, until I smiled through my own vanishing,
until I laughed at my own undoing.
God, I was so easy to forget.

And now, here I am.
Not peaceful. Not reborn.
Just another ruin on the mountainside,

watching the sun set on a life
I don’t even want back. What’s left to want?
When you’ve given until there’s nothing,
when love is just a beautiful way... to be left empty.

Call it healing if you want. Call it growth.
But I know the truth. I was never climbing;
I was falling all along... or call it; fallen long ago.

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