My hands curl into fists,
rise, fall, collide—
a desperate attempt to quiet the voices,
to dull the emotions that make me
want to peel myself open,
step out of my own skin,
escape the body that holds me hostage.
But my chest is caving in.
Splitting, cracking,
like open-heart surgery without anesthesia—
something clawing to break free,
ribs splintering under pressure,
digging inward,
digging deeper.
So I hit harder.
Maybe pain can smother pain,
maybe force will silence what therapy cannot.
I pace—
but the walls are folding in,
air thick, unbreathable.
My hands press against my chest,
rocking, whispering,
It's okay, it's okay, you're going to be okay.
But my voice is a broken record,
and I don't believe myself.
I fall—
knees to the ground,
palms pressed against my mouth
to trap the sobs trying to claw their way out.
I curl into the carpet,
let the tears carve their place into my skin,
branding me with a truth I cannot escape:
this will never fully leave me.
No matter how many sessions I sit through,
this illness has built a home in me.
And I no longer recognize the person inside.