Starving for Freedom, Bleeding for Peace

I count the bones beneath my skin,

as if they hold the answers

to what he left behind.

Each rib, a tally of words he carved into me,

each shadow on my frame,

a reminder that love, in his hands,

was nothing but hunger.

The mirror doesn't lie,

but it doesn't tell the truth, either.

It only shows what I refuse to feel—

a body breaking under the weight

of emptiness and sharp edges,

as if cutting away the pieces of myself

could make me whole again.

He said I was too much,

too loud, too soft, too everything.

So, I began to disappear,

pulling the thread of myself tighter,

watching it unravel

until there was nothing left

but silence and skin.

The scars trace a story

I wish I could forget,

but they whisper in the quiet—

a map of a pain I can't outrun,

a truth I can't unlive.

I wanted to feel light,

to float above the wreckage he left,

but I've only learned

that emptiness has its own weight,

and it's heavier than love ever was.