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There’s a rose growing through the cracks in the concrete, so fragile and out of place it feels like a cruel joke. I stare at it and think of the irony, blooming on a surface that was never meant to hold life. This place is a prison, the air heavy, and I’m trapped here—a pilgrim too afraid to take the first step. Everything around me rots under the sun, and whatever doesn’t break, burns.
When there’s nowhere left to hide, you stop looking for exits and start chasing shortcuts. Denial and anger have lingered so long they feel like old friends, pulling me to the edge just to keep me company. But even they are starting to fade. I feel myself unraveling, piece by piece, as if soon there will be nothing left of me. And yet, the only thing I tell myself is: don’t forget to breathe. But I always forget. I always do. 1/ 3 replies
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I’ve learned how to coexist in a world that thrives on war, a world where love feels like clenching your teeth to keep from screaming. But what’s left of me when the fight is over? I sit here in silence, staring at my reflection, and all I see is a dead heretic with no storms left to face. There’s no fire, no resistance, just this hollow shell. And it hurts to admit, but this doesn’t sustain the spirit. The fire I carried now feels counterfeit, like trying to fly without feathers.
The tide is always stronger. We swim against it until it pulls us under or spits us out. And in the meantime, I taste the bitterness of this struggle: the grief, the denial, the fleeting clarity that abandons me too quickly. And here I am, once again telling myself: don’t forget to breathe.
But when I see the fist tightening in front of me, asking if I want more, I don’t know if the answer is yes, or if I just want to disappear. 2/ 1 reply
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