I count the bones beneath my skin,
as if they hold the answers
to what he left behind.
Each rib, a tally of words he carved into me,
each shadow on my frame,
a reminder that love, in his hands,
was nothing but hunger.
The mirror doesn't lie,
but it doesn't tell the truth, either.
It only shows what I refuse to feelâ
a body breaking under the weight
of emptiness and sharp edges,
as if cutting away the pieces of myself
could make me whole again.
He said I was too much,
too loud, too soft, too everything.
So, I began to disappear,
pulling the thread of myself tighter,
watching it unravel
until there was nothing left
but silence and skin.
The scars trace a story
I wish I could forget,
but they whisper in the quietâ
a map of a pain I can't outrun,
a truth I can't unlive.
I wanted to feel light,
to float above the wreckage he left,
but I've only learned
that emptiness has its own weight,
and it's heavier than love ever was.