the quietest escape.

it starts small.

a whisper in the void,

a fleeting thought,

that maybe pain can be measured

in lines,

not words.

the sting feels honest.

more honest than the empty “how are you?”

or the eyes that look,

but never see.

they don’t see it, do they?

how the world presses in,

heavy hands on fragile ribs,

and the only way to breathe

is to bleed.

a red ribbon unfurls—

soft, quiet,

a secret you can control.

it asks nothing from you.

it only takes.

and takes.

and takes.

but even then,

it leaves you empty.

you can try to fill the void again,

but the lines blur,

and soon, you won’t recognize

the hand holding the blade.

is it still yours?

they say it gets better,

but when?

sometimes,

the sharpness feels

like the only answer.