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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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