What if I am the crack in the universe,
splitting wide open, bleeding dust and ache,
a jagged scream smothered in shadow?
What if I am the sound of failure
scraping its nails along the spine of time,
an echo nobody listens to,
unraveling in a cold vacuum where silence reigns?
My bones are breaking under the weight
of a thousand false starts,
splintering, scattered like stars that once held promises
but now burn too dim to guide anyone.
I am losing it, aren't I?
Losing the grip,
losing the plot,
losing what made me human,
or maybe finding that what I thought was flesh
was only a fragile paper-mâché mask,
now soaking wet and dripping into ruin.
It is a sickness, this unmaking.
A sour breath caught in my throat,
a hand reaching out into the dark but touching only ghosts
of the things I thought I could be—
better, brighter, braver—but I was never anything more
than a trembling wretch,
tangled in the bedsheets of my mind,
gnawing at the seams, feeling them rip apart
in silence and in rage.
Do you see me?
I'm falling,
headfirst into a blackness that calls itself clarity,
where every scar is a sentence,
and every failure is a stench I cannot wash off.
What if this is it?
What if all I was meant to be was the smear
left on the canvas after the storm,
where nothing good grows,
where nothing bright blooms?
This is no confession.
This is the splatter of everything I have left,
naked, rotting at the core,
and who am I to apologize?
I won't. I will not shrink from this unraveling,
this descent into the mad,
this rage-streaked breath
that carries me deeper into whatever hell
I was always meant to taste.
I lose it, I lose it all,
and maybe that is where the truth lies,
where everything raw and vile waits to devour me,
to wear my skin like a broken crown
and dance in the ashes of my former self.
What if I am nothing?
What if that's the only thing
I ever really was?
