The glass
There is a room inside my chest,
where every season lost its name,
where winter settled in my bones
and taught the walls to hold my shame.
The windows still remember sunlight,
still whisper stories of the day,
but every crack beneath the glass
reminds me of what slipped away.
The walls have learned to bloom with mold,
the flowers grow from broken stone,
and every corner of this place
feels like a life I’ve never known.
I keep sweeping up the pieces,
the fragments scattered on the floor,
but every piece I try to save
belongs to someone I was before.
A stranger stares back from the mirror,
with tired eyes and trembling hands,
a person built from all the storms
who learned to breathe through shifting sands.
I became so good at surviving,
I forgot what it meant to live.
I learned to take and never ask,
to lose and still pretend to give.
I built my home from empty rooms,
from broken doors and rusted keys.
I planted roots in poisoned soil
and called the ache beneath me peace.
Survival is a house with no door,
a place where I am locked inside,
a castle made of shattered glass
where all my fears have learned to hide.
I’ve worn my armor for so long,
my skin forgot that it was soft.
I carried mountains on my back
and wondered why I felt so lost.
Because beneath the dust and damage,
beneath the weight I cannot move,
there’s still a ghost of who I was
that never learned what else to do.
I walk these halls of broken memories,
where echoes call me by my name,
still searching through the empty rooms
for pieces that remain the same.
Survival is a house with no front door,
a place I never meant to stay,
but I’ve spent so long becoming lost
I fear I’d break if I walked away.
So I sit among the shattered glass,
with all the things I couldn’t save,
a lonely soul inside these walls,
still haunting the home I had to make.
