Something Broke

Something has shattered

deep inside me—

not bone, not blood,

but something older,

quieter,

more sacred than even I can name.

I carry its absence

like a wound without a body,

an echo in a cathedral

whose god has long since left.

I do not know what I lost,

only that it mattered

more than breath.

And yet—

I walk.

I smile.

I pass through days

as if the weight of nothing

were a thing I could bear.

There are moments

when I feel it—

like I could change the world.

Like something burns inside me

bright enough

to make the stars ashamed.

But I do nothing.

Not from cowardice—

from the slow erosion

of belief itself.

Instead,

I do my best

to ruin myself

with precision.

To silence the lie

that I was meant for more.

And still,

in the ruined silence,

a flicker survives:

the trembling wish

to matter.

To become

whatever that broken thing

once hoped I'd be.

A death wish, maybe—

but not for the body.

For the version of me

that dies every day

trying to prove

it was never real

to begin with.

But God—

how I want it to be real.

How I want to wake one day

and find I’ve become

the thing that shattered.

Whole again.

Impossible.

But true.