When the shadows open their eyes,
a cold current slips down my spine,
quiet and familiar,
as if the darkness knows my name
better than the daylight ever has.
I feel the fear rise,
but somewhere beneath it
a small flame insists it is still alive,
and I trust it,
at least I think I do.

There are moments
when I stare straight into the things
that want to break me,
and I wait for the sharp inhale,
the trembling,
but instead I hear my own voice
saying I am still here.
If the world is against me,
then it means there is something in me
worth standing for.

So I drag my heels across the ground,
leaving marks in the dirt,
tracks carved into the surface
so someone, anyone,
can follow the story I am too tired to tell.
I leave pieces of myself behind
like breadcrumbs made of bruises,
hoping they form a path
someone will finally notice.
Can you see it,
the slow scrape of survival?

Sometimes I whisper for help
in a voice so soft
it almost sounds like air.
Please, please hurry,
the night is long
and I am tired of walking through it alone.
My footprints grow heavy,
but I keep dragging them forward,
hoping the evidence is clear enough,
hoping someone cares enough
to trace it back to me.

And then, after the darkest hours,
when my breath feels thin
and my hope feels thinner,
the sky cracks open at the edges
and light spills in,
gentle and gold.
I blink,
and for the first time
I am not afraid to be seen.

You found me.

by Onnaya