death is an interesting thing
a lover can't love when her heart, her body has been ruined from a young age
it isn’t a goodbye,
it just looks like one.
I learned how to make pain quiet,
how to fold it small enough
to fit between the lines.
If you’re reading this,
I probably smiled today.
I probably sang, danced, acted—
played the girl who has it together
so well it fooled even me.
I hide things in beauty.
In harmony.
In timing.
I am excellent at pretending
the ache is part of the art.
Sometimes I think about disappearing
the way others think about sleep—
not dramatic,
just tired.
Just wanting the noise to stop.
But listen closely.
I write for a reason
Because I am still here.
Because writing this means
I chose words instead of silence,
ink instead of endings.
If I ever leave clues like this again,
don’t look for a body—
please reach out because
i dont know how to ask.
I’m not ok.
Not perfect.
Not healed.
But breathing.
And tonight,
i don't know
