Knife To My Heart

There is a sharpness in my heart,

not a clean cut,

but a jagged edge that twists when I breathe.

It reminds me I am still here,

even when I wish I wasn’t feeling so much.

The hurt in my soul doesn’t scream

it settles.

It lives in the quiet moments,

in the pauses between words,

in the way my chest feels too heavy

for a heart meant to love.

I carry this pain like a shadow,

always present,

stretching longer in the dark.

It seeps into my thoughts,

etches itself into my ribs,

carving memories I never asked to keep.

I tried to soften it,

to name it something gentle,

but it refuses kindness.

It is honest.

It is raw.

It is the aftermath of caring too deeply.

Still, I beat on.

Even fractured,

even bleeding in places no one can see,

my heart insists on rhythm.

And maybe that’s the cruelest part

or maybe,

it’s the bravest thing about me