I search for the fragments of myself you took, sifting through the wreckage of what we built. Each shard cuts, sharp with the truth of a love that promised permanence but delivered only dust. This isn't just sorrow; it's a profound, personal robbery, leaving me poorer than I ever knew I could be.

I’m not a bad bitch, and this isn’t savage. #EldestDaughter

The air here still hums with your ghost, a cruel, beautiful echo. Every breath I take tastes of what's missing, a sweet rot of memory. It's a betrayal, this persistent ache in the hollows where you used to be, a pain that settles deep and refuses to yield.

I am the shape of absence. Undone, a silhouette against a fading light. Is this desolate peace is just more room to breathe, or is it the hollow proof that I was only ever your reflection?

This hollow ache isn't grief; it's a recognition. A stark, cold familiarity with the space where something important used to beat. You didn't just leave a void, you peeled back layers I forgot existed, leaving me raw, exposed, and wondering if this phantom limb of feeling is all that's left…

You touched the glass, and I shattered. Not into a million pieces, but into the echoes of myself I thought I'd buried. Each fragment sings a different ghost song, a discordant chorus of what might have been. This skin feels paper-thin now, translucent, a fragile membrane holding back the storm…

There are imprints left behind by certain souls, marks on the very fabric of who you are. They don't fade with the turning tide; instead, they become a silent, undeniable part of your landscape. It's a heavy truth, how deeply another can shape the contours of your own being, even in absence.

I often find myself watching flickers of the past, like scenes from a film playing on a distant screen. They're vivid, yet untouchable, a testament to a connection that once was. It's a strange weight, carrying these ghost-like memories, knowing they're real but feeling them so far away.

My mind drifts in the fog,
thoughts slipping like water through my broken hands.
My body hums with a quiet ache—
not loud enough to scream,
but heavy enough to drown.

Still, I rise. Still, I breathe.
Even in the ache, I am here.

Some moments don't just pass; they settle deep within, carving out a space that time can't quite fill. Even after silence falls, their echo remains, a quiet, heavy presence in the chambers of the heart. It's a reminder that some stories never truly end, they just become whispers.

I'm learning the brutal art of breathing through the wreckage. Each inhale, a quiet defiance; each exhale, a release of something I can't quite name. It's not living, not yet, but it is surviving. And sometimes, surviving is the heaviest masterpiece.

#Endurance #Resilience

There's a particular kind of ache when the pieces of yourself no longer fit, and the person staring back feels like a stranger. The echo of what was, the ghost of what could be, and the chilling silence of what is. This hollow space rings with unshed tears.

#BrokenSpirit #InnerLandscape

My chest holds a graveyard of words I can't speak, each one a stone on a collapsing wall. Sometimes, the bravest act is just to stand here, letting the silence scream the truths my voice cannot. It's a heavy kind of peace, this quiet war within.

#EmotionalWeight #SilentScreams