A mind can stretch,

but the pain stays—

a permanent tenant

in bone, in blood,

in the quiet spaces

where language fails.

There are never enough words

for longing.

Even silence aches.

Even breath feels borrowed

from a world that finds us

inconvenient.

And every whisper of hope

feels like betrayal—

a softness the world

has never earned.

So let it bleed,

(it already does)

let it bruise,

(purple as silence)

let the truth come through.

(truth is teeth, truth is rot)

We are living with the hurt

(the kind they don’t believe)

that no one wants to see.

(look away, look away)

We are breathing through the fire,

(breath burns, breath falters)

through the fever, through the grief—

(count the losses, count the losses)

not for glory, not for pity,

(don’t you dare call this strength)

just to keep existing.

(existing is the battlefield)

The nightstand glints

with medicine bottles,

labels cold scripture

for a suffering body.

Ice packs melt and refreeze—

a ritual of endurance,

a prayer without gods

or answers.

This body sings hurt—

not loudly,

not for applause—

but in crackling joints,

in trembling hands

lifting another day.

No stethoscope hears it,

no chart captures it—

and no system cares

to name what it is.

So let it bleed,

(it already does)

let it bruise,

(purple as silence)

let the truth come through.

(truth is teeth, truth is rot)

We are living with the hurt

(the kind they don’t believe)

that no one wants to see.

(look away, look away)

We are breathing through the fire,

(breath burns, breath falters)

through the fever, through the grief—

(count the losses, count the losses)

not for glory, not for pity,

(don’t you dare call this strength)

just to keep existing.

(existing is blind trust)

Symptoms pile like unpaid bills—

the news screams death,

the state debates our worth,

strangers smile and swear:

"the pandemic is over"—

as if suffering

has a switch.

As if we could shut it off.

Still—

somewhere tender,

dreams survive

like weeds breaking concrete.

I dream of a world

where sick bodies

aren’t hidden,

aren’t punished,

aren’t proof of failure.

Where we are seen—

not pitied.

Held—

not corrected.

Where survival isn’t noise

but art.

So let my song open

(and let you remember)

like a wound,

(skin splits again)

let it breathe,

(slow, shallow)

let it bleed,

(red proof we remain)

let it hurt the way truth hurts.

(pain never lies)

We are tired,

(beyond tired—emptied)

aching,

(bone-deep, decade-deep)

uncelebrated—

(invisible while screaming)

but still here.

(still here. still here.)

Not your tragedy,

(you only watch when it’s pretty)

not your miracle—

(survival is not spectacle)

just alive.

(and sometimes barely)

Living.

Despite.

Living.

Despite.

Dying.

Instead of living by…