I wish

​I would have died

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Pashchatāpa

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You were the pulse in a room gone quiet, the breath behind glass I never could break. And I, with hands too full of my own ruin, let you slip still aching for the weight of you. I never meant to drag you through my flood. Hurt swells like a tide in me, and I forget how not to drown the ones who try to reach in. Forgive me. For how I made silence a weapon, for every sharp word disguised as defense, for the way I bled abandonment onto you and called it love. You didn’t deserve the shadows I threw. Now you haunt my unmade bed, the bridge of every song I can’t skip. I want to live in the flicker between waking and dream where you always stay. I still feel you. Still wonder if you feel me too in the space between the chorus and the collapse. I was never trying to leave. I just didn’t know how to stay without setting fire to everything.
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Will you halt this eclipse in me?

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I touch what I love and it splits at the seams. Like silk held in stormlight— too fragile for my heat. I never meant to bleed on everything, but my hands have mouths and they’re always starving. I don’t know how to be touched without shattering. I don’t know how to be seen without disappearing. So write it down the damage report, chalk outlines of everything I swore I’d never break. Am I the flood or the vessel? Am I the ghost or the ache? I watch them blink in slow retreat— those who once reached for me. Like I loved too loud. Like I needed too long. But I only ever wanted someone to stay and not vanish when the dark came, not protest when the lighting flashed. They call it ruin, missing pieces of Self every time I chose love with trepidation. Of every time I stayed when the silence was deafening. Am I still breathing in the aftermath? Still praying my daughter never learns to measure her worth like I do I am the storm. When will the rain fall softly? Let me fall into hands that don’...
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I Give Up

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