A solemn woman in a dark dress stands in a desolate, misty forest surrounded by spectral white ghosts, with skull-like objects on her chest.

For the Ones Who Still Breathe with Bruised Lungs Some people write to remember. I write so I don’t disappear. There’s something terrifying about being the one who always understands, The one who listens. The one who catches broken people like a net made of barbed wire, Bleeding quietly so they don’t have to. No one ever asks how the net feels. They only ask if it’s strong enough to catch them. I’ve become the comfort I never received. The lifeline I never had. The broken bridge people cross to find themselves— But never look back to see what’s left of me. They tell me I’m strong. What they mean is: “You haven’t died yet, and that makes me feel better.” They don’t see that every act of kindness I give Rips something out of me, Leaves another hollow space behind my ribs. They don’t hear how loud the silence is When everyone walks away healed And I’m left with their ghosts screaming inside my head. I’m a graveyard of other people’s sorrow. A museum of scars that don’t belong to me But live on my skin anyway. I don’t help people because I’m healed. I help people because I know what it’s like To scream into the dark And hear nothing but your own voice echoing back like a curse. I don’t want to be the light. I want someone to sit with me in the dark And say, “You don’t have to shine to be seen.” But no one ever does. Instead, I bleed poetry for people who won’t remember my name. I give pieces of my soul to strangers Because I know what it’s like To wish someone had done the same See more