You can’t sell dreams to someone who’s danced with demons in their sleep.
There’s a certain kind of pain you don’t heal from, you just learn to carry it differently. I've had nights where I didn’t sleep, not because I couldn’t, but because I refused to close my eyes and meet the things waiting for me there.
I’ve made a bed out of broken glass
and still rose, bleeding, with a smile.
People talk about survival like it’s some noble, poetic thing. But they don’t tell you how ugly it gets. They don’t tell you about waking up and wishing you hadn’t, or putting on a face for the world while silently screaming inside.
Don't whisper fantasies in my ear
when I’ve heard screams echo through silence. See, I’ve known silence that isn’t peaceful, the kind of silence that’s heavy, suffocating,
the kind that holds your head underwater while your heart begs for a breath.
Your dreams are soft. Mine were ripped from me. And I kept walking.
You ever lost something that wasn’t physical? Not a person. Not a place.
But something in you, the kind of loss that shifts your whole internal gravity? That’s the kind of grief people can’t see, so they assume you’re fine. And maybe you are. But not in the way they think.
I don’t chase the light. I am the shadow that learned to survive without it. I’m not looking for pity. I’m not here to inspire. I’m just speaking for the ones who are still carrying broken pieces but somehow manage to keep moving anyway.
So no, don’t sell me dreams. I walked through my nightmares and made it out the other side. I didn’t find peace. I became it. And I’ll never let anyone take that from me again.
