Weight of Myself

You.

You with the trembling pulse and the hurricane eyes.

You’ve turned self-destruction into a ritual,

lighting candles for every flaw

and praying to them like gods.

You swallow your own shadow

every time you feel too much,

then blame the darkness in your stomach

for why you can’t breathe.

Tell me—

how does it feel to be both the poison

and the antidote you refuse to take?

You keep carving your worth

into smaller and smaller pieces,

like someone told you

you’re only allowed to exist

in fragments.

Slivers.

Scraps.

You say you’re lost,

but you’re the one blindfolding yourself,

walking willingly into the mirrors

you know will crack on impact.

You do it just to hear the sound of breaking—

because destruction feels more familiar

than gentleness ever did.

Look at you:

a demolition site pretending to be a girl.

A heart that keeps writing its own obituaries.

A body that carries grief like jewelry,

wearing every ache like it shines.

You want poetry?

Here it is:

You are the forest fire

and the matchstick.

The empty house

and the wind that slams the doors.

The bruise

and the fist that made it.

No one else is haunting you.

You’re the ghost.

You’re the one pacing the hallways

of your own mind at 3 a.m.,

dragging chains made from every moment

you swore you’d let go of.

And then you ask why you feel heavy.

My love,

you’ve built an entire cathedral

from your disappointments

and called it home.

You kneel at the altar

of every mistake you ever made

and wonder why you never rise

feeling absolved.

Harsh truth?

You let yourself down

with a consistency

that almost feels like devotion.

Every time you begin to bloom,

you cut yourself back—

call it pruning,

though everyone knows

you’re just afraid of taking up space.

You are terrified of the girl you could be

if you ever stopped running

from the ashes you keep feeding.

But listen—

you’ve danced with ruin long enough.

Your feet know the pattern by heart,

your pulse carries the rhythm

of every self-inflicted storm.

So here’s your turning point:

Face yourself without flinching.

Stare down the version of you

that keeps torching your future

just to stay warm in the past.

Stop blocking yourself out

like you’re an unwelcome thought.

You’re not a ghost.

You’re not a curse.

You’re the girl who lived

through every fire she lit.

Which means—

you’re the girl capable

of putting them out.