— Ashs
My pillow knows
how much I keep to myself.
It has heard my cries —
the screams I bury in fabric,
clutching tight
so no one else can hear.
It knows
how I hate every bit of me that's left,
how words cut so deep
they make my body shiver.
I shout into silence
so the world stays deaf.
It knows the sleepless nights,
the ones stitched into memory,
the ones I can never forget.
Why can't I forget?
I want to forget.
And I beat myself up
for holding on to things
already tearing me apart.
What have I done?
I don't want this.
I don't want this pain.
Me —
hating every bit of me that's left.
Who should I ask?
Who?
It's a cry for help,
but I can't cry.
I should be strong.
And then something goes quiet.
Not peace — just numb.
The crying stops,
not because it healed,
but because it burned itself out.
Sleep doesn't come,
but mornings do.
They arrive without mercy,
and I get up because I have to —
like forgetting is a duty,
like pain is something
I failed to unlearn.
I put the blame back
where it always goes:
on me.
So I wake up carrying everything
I was supposed to forget,
moving through the day
on obligation alone.
I just keep going —
numb enough to function,
awake enough to ache,
convincing myself
this is what I deserve.