Almost 28
It's almost my birthday,
and somehow I'm still here,
barely, but breathing - after a year of mental carnage.
Depression didn't knock, it broke in,
set up camp in my chest,
while psychosis turned the world
into a funhouse mirror,
bending truth until I didn't know what was real.
I drowned in thoughts that tore like glass,
sharper than anything outside my head,
clawed my way back
with hands bloodied from fighting shadows
that only I could see.
But look at me - still here,
not marching, just limping forward.
Piecing myself together, bit by bit,
from shards too sharp to handle,
scars etched deep, telling stories
I'm not ready to share.
And through the wreckage,
I feel her - the real me,
not a whisper, but a scream rising from the rubble.
She's been buried longer than I'll admit,
slipping away year by year while I wasn't looking.
But now, through the haze,
she's fighting her way back, relentless,
and this wreckage? It's her rebirth.
I didn't conquer this storm.
I learned to survive inside it,
learned to dance with the debris.
Now, when I look at the wreckage,
I see it differently - not a graveyard,
but the blueprint of someone who refuses to vanish.
And somehow,
that feels like enough.
Copyright ©
Lauren Tilley
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