past work: moments to break.

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There is a chaos in me that
can’t be stilled
save for my tears leaking in the
same way my heart bleeds from
the effort of bearing my stress –
a role never asked for.

I curl up, all of me,
holding the weak tired heavy
parts with a distant apology
never fully uttered. Because I can’t.
Circumstances haven’t given me a chance
to fully heal
yet.

So strength comes in moments
of silence, of thorny words spoken before
I can think, blood that I wipe with
salt, the smile powered by only
three hours of shut-eye and
no rest. It’s minute. It’s raw. It’s ugly.

I do what I can do, as
time mercilessly pulls forward.
It doesn’t see or hear me – it only rushes,
dreading to miss life. I, too, open my eyes each
morning to run with it – chaos drives me.

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