I wake, but I do not rise —
Just drift between dreams and daylight lies.
A fog clings tight around my chest,
Even in sleep, I get no rest.
There was a time I knew my name,
Spoke it proud, not bound by shame.
But now I whisper it like a sin,
To mirrors that don't let me in.
I used to dance — not for eyes,
But because music lived beneath my skies.
Now, I walk like a puppet worn,
A ghost with strings all frayed and torn.
I used to write — poems, songs,
Stories where broken things still belonged.
Now, my pen shakes in silent fight,
Afraid of spilling what feels too right.
I laugh in rooms I don’t belong,
Choke on air, pretend I’m strong.
The world keeps asking, “Where are you?”
I smile and say, “Right here,” — not true.
My voice is softer, unsure, thin,
Like it forgot the fire within.
And though I speak, no one can tell,
My words are carved from quiet hell.
I lost myself in pieces small —
Not in storms, but in the fall
Of tiny moments, brushed aside,
In times I said, “I’m fine,” and lied.
Was it the night I didn’t cry,
Though every bone begged me to try?
Or when I let them speak for me,
Till silence became identity?
Now I stand where I used to bloom,
An empty skin, a hollow room.
My laughter echoes, strange and wild,
Like the voice of someone else’s child.
I grieve not death, not flesh or bone,
But the me I left alone.
The girl who fought, who dared, who burned —
Now just ashes, unreturned.
And no one noticed when she went —
No trumpet cry, no monument.
Just a slow retreat, breath by breath,
Until her life looked more like death.
---
Still, somewhere deep beneath this skin,
Her heartbeat drums, soft and thin.
And if I learn to listen right,
Perhaps I’ll find her in the night.
But for now, I mourn, I break, I bend,
And write her name again… again…
A funeral ink across my page —
A girl lost young, yet died with age.
