How do you know that a moment is real? By the weight in your chest and the things you can feel. The spark in your blood, or the sting of a tear, The proof in the pulsing that tells you you’re here.
Now sever the wires and turn off the light, Drown every emotion till nothing is bright. When the inside is hollow and quiet as stone, How do you prove that you’re living alone?
The life goes on around you, it moves like a show, While you stand inside like a corpse down below. The brain cuts the connection to keep out the pain, And leaves you with nothing to show for the strain.
The present collapses, the past isn’t mine, Just loose, scattered pages from some other time. I look in the mirror, but nobody’s there, A ghost in the glass with a hollowed out stare.
I search through the drawers and I dig through the box, To find an old memory locked under locks. I hold it up close, but there’s nothing inside, No heat and no heart, just a shell that has died.
How do you live when your past is a ghost? When the things you have lost are the things you need most? Except for one memory standing out clear, The one that is bleeding, the one full of fear.
The terrified child who was trapped in the room, Who grew up in violence, in panic and gloom. The child no one saw and that nobody heard, Who counted and ruled every single small word.
She was the Architect weaving the shield, The master of every protection revealed. She froze all the rest so the body could stand, While she kept the fire alive in her hand. So everything dies while she stays untouched, The Architect keeping the truth in her clutch.
She’s the only real thing in a mind built of frost, The origin point where the feelings were lost. She’s sits in the dark while the rest turns to ash, The one living wound from the original crash.
I write unfiltered, raw and brutally honest poetry and prose on trauma, survival and living with BPD and OCD, which I’ve had since childhood.
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