I didn’t come here to gather myself.
I came to confirm there’s nothing left.
No light, no prayers, no rest.
I came with the wreckage, not to mend it,
just to look at it with closed eyes.
I am the silent crack.
The one no one sees.
The one they ignore.
The one that splits open while everyone sleeps.
I’ve embraced the void.
Quietly, without warning.
Like someone vanishing through fissures.
Like those who fade without witnesses.
And I’m in no hurry to stand back up.
I didn’t come to cry,
but if my eyes fall out, let no one pick them up.
There are no more tears left in my cracks.
I didn’t come to speak,
but if my mouth opens, let no one silence me.
I prefer silence.
Because it is not redemption.
I haven’t come to show peace.
Or to dress meaninglessness in blue.
I’ve come, simply,
to lie down on the knives.
I no longer care if they cut or leave stains.
In the end,
they don’t even hurt anymore.