The Edge Doesn’t Own My Name

Tonight I stand where silence screams,

Where hope is stitched together

By thread so thin

It trembles beneath the weight

Of another aching day.

Depression is a cruel storyteller.

It whispers that tomorrow

Will wear the same gray face,

That every sunrise is just another reminder

Of battles no one else can see.

It tells me I’m tired.

It tells me to stop believing.

It tells me the war has already been decided.

But depression has lied before.

I am on the edge

Not because I have stopped fighting,

But because I have fought so long

That every breath feels earned,

Every heartbeat feels like lifting mountains

With shaking hands.

People see a smile.

They don’t hear the thunder

Raging beneath my ribs.

They hear my laugh.

They don’t hear the thousand questions

Echoing through my mind

Long after the room grows quiet.

Every morning

I lace up invisible armor,

Though it’s cracked,

Though it’s dented,

Though sometimes I wonder

How much more it can hold.

I fight.

I fight when tears fall

For reasons I cannot name.

I fight when the mirror

Reflects someone

I struggle to recognize.

I fight when the darkness

Wraps itself around my shoulders

And calls itself home.

Some days

It feels like I’m winning.

Other days

It feels like I’m disappearing

One small piece at a time.

And that terrifies me.

Because I know what it feels like

To stand on the edge,

Looking down into the emptiness,

Wondering if I’ll ever feel light again.

But somewhere,

Buried beneath the exhaustion,

There is a stubborn spark.

Small.

Flickering.

Bruised.

Yet refusing to die.

It reminds me

That I have survived storms

That once convinced me

They would become my forever.

So if today I can only crawl,

Then crawling is still movement.

If today all I can do

Is whisper,

“I made it,”

Then that whisper

Is louder than despair’s roar.

Depression may walk beside me.

It may bruise my spirit.

It may convince me

That I’m losing.

But it does not get

To write the ending.

Because every breath I take

Is an act of rebellion.

Every sunrise I witness

Is another page

It never wanted me to reach.

And if hope feels impossible tonight,

Then I will borrow tomorrow’s.

If strength feels gone,

I will remember

That surviving is its own kind of courage.

I may be standing on the edge.

But the edge

Does not own my name.

Not tonight.

Not while there is still

Even the smallest part of me

That refuses

To let the darkness

Have the final word.