She was sick,
and the worst part was,
She wanted to be.
She longed for the hollow emptiness,
the faintness that came with being invisible,
as if fading away could somehow make her whole.
She wanted to be pale as a ghost,
thin as a whisper in the wind,
each rib a silent victory,
each glance in the mirror a reminder
that she was somehow less,
but in that lessness, more
She thought the hunger might make her stronger,
that the ache in her chest
was some kind of clarity.
something in the pain twisted her thoughts,
deformed into shapes that felt familiar,
like old friends with sharp edges.
it stained her mind,
making her believe that it was normal,
that her absence of self was the only way to feel real.
And so she clung to it,
even as it tore her apart,
because for a moment,
the world seemed quieter,
the weight of everything
a little less unbearable.
There was no need to face the noise,
the questions, the worries—
just that, that hollow quiet
that wrapped around her like a second skin.
She kept telling herself it was temporary,
that soon she’d feel better,
that one more day,
one more hour of control,
would make her feel like she had a grip on something.
But each day passed,
and she only sank deeper
into the illusion that being less
was somehow easier.
She stopped noticing the way her body ached,
how her bones seemed to creak beneath the weight of nothing,
how her thoughts were becoming clouds,
dissolving before they could form.
She lost track of who she was outside of this quiet war,
of what she looked like when she smiled
or laughed,
or felt something that wasn’t just this emptiness.
The worst part?
She didn’t want to stop.
She didn’t know how.
She had convinced herself
that this pain, this absence,
was the only way to be.
She tried to remember
what life once had been,
Before sickness crept in
and stole her skin.
She searched for the flickers,
the spark of the sun,
To escape the deep shadows
where shadows had won.
But all that she found
were the wisps of a sound,
The echoes of voices
that no longer were found.
The whispers of sadness,
they lingered, they clung,
A song she once sang,
now forever unsung.
She carried the weight
of her unspoken dreams,
The ghosts of her past
in a flood of silent screams.
The laughter that danced,
now a faraway tune,
A melody lost
in the dark of the moon.
Her grief was a mountain,
too heavy to take,
There was nothing left,
nothing left to break.
She knew what was at stake,
the price to be paid,
Yet she couldn’t escape
the debts that were made.
She couldn’t rid herself of the ache in her chest,
That gnawing, relentless, that never gave rest.
Death didn’t wait for the ready or strong,
It came when she faltered when something went wrong.
It came when her hands trembled, her heart was unsteady,
When the world was too loud, and she wasn’t quite ready.
It waited for her to slip, to fade, to fall,
For the pain to consume, to answer its call.
But even as she sank, there was a flicker of light,
A hope that whispered, You can still fight.
A spark in the darkness, so fragile, so small,
But enough to remind her, she was worth it all.
Yet in her heart, it felt so distant, so cold,
The weight of the world,
too heavy to hold.
She grasped at that hope,
but it slipped through her hands,
The pain was too much, the shame too deep,
A haunting echo that never let her sleep.
She wondered if she could ever rise again,
Or if she’d drown forever, lost in the pain.