Bruised House

I see you kneeling in the bruised house.

I see you shouting—inside mind.

Light leaks through the tears.

I see myself, shivering—

beneath the fan, beside the rope—

my feet wet with guilt

in the heat of July.


We are going to cry.

We are going to kill parts of ourselves.

There were dreams once.

They died.

All we know now is:

we won’t reach them.

They were never meant to be real.


And I won’t come to you—or to myself—

and say don’t cry.

No.

Cry harder.

Let the pain deepen.

Give me more wounds.

Give him more storms.


You’ll do things you never thought you could.

You’ll build something good

inside this bruised house.

You’ll taste joy

in ways you’ve never heard of.

You’ll want to feel it all.


Still,

I won’t come to stop you

in the blue of the July moonlight.


Your trembling face will turn to silence.

Your sorrow—untouched by the world.

And me—

my tears melting into sweat—

turning cold, turning numb.


I am pain too.

Unseen.

Untouched.


But we want to live.

We refuse to run.


So I take them—

like astatine and platinum—

rare, volatile, real—

and place them

inside this broken house,

beneath the dark.


And I say:

Do what you’re going to do.

I’ll carry it.

And I’ll live through it.

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