Even My Shadow Doesn’t Stay Long

Isolation is not quiet,

it is a constant ringing in your ear,

a low vibration inside the skull, a constant ache that never leaves.

Depression is not darkness,

it is a fog that makes even light feel heavy.

I build walls,

not out of stone but out of broken promises, half written texts, and

invitations declined.

Every silence becomes a brick,

every withdrawal, a door locked.

They call it self sabotage.

I call it survival.

If I ruin the bridge myself, I won’t have to watch someone else burn it.

If I close the door, I won’t have to see their back as they walk away.

It hurts less, I tell myself,

to be the author of my undoing.

I’d rather bleed by my own hand than by a stranger’s,

it hurts less.

But still,

nights are long,

the bed is wide, and

my heart still remembers what it feels like to be held without fear.

And yet, here I am,

folding myself into smaller and smaller corners,

convincing myself that safety can be built from ruin, and that love can be kept at bay like a storm at sea.

I guess,

sometimes the only way I know how to protect myself is,

to make sure that there is nothing left to lose.