My lips are cracked and swollen.
I look used.
I feel empty.
I drop to the ground,
pull my knees to my chest,
arms wrapping around them,
trying to hold myself in.
There’s no one here. Not even a bird.
The sun—high and arrogant—blinds me,
as if it’s forcing its way in,
stomping its light inside me
through the windows of my eyes.
And then I rip open my bag,
hands shaking, breath shaking.
Notepad. Pen.
I write, fast, messy,
words bleeding through my fingertips.
I don’t hesitate. I don’t edit.
I let words fall out of me.
No filter. Just raw nerve on the page.
Bars spill out, confessions I don’t mean to say.
Lines crash down one after the other,
faster than my tears,
louder than my heartbeat,
sharper than my guilt.
Every syllable punches.
Every verse pulses.
It’s heartbreak. It’s honesty.
It’s powerless rage shoved into rhyme.
Truth wrapped in rhythm.
