A poem for those who bleed as a reminder that we are still alive..

I press my thumb to the edge of the knife,
just to watch the red rise slow
a tiny rebellion against the nothingness,
a whisper back to the dark:
See? I’m still here….

The pain is a friend,
the only one who never lies,
who doesn’t say IT’S ALL FINE
when the world feels like a ghost.

I know it’s not the way,
but sometimes I need to see the hurt,
to hold it in my hands,
because the ache outside
is easier than the one within.

And when the blood beads up,
for a second, I believe….
not in healing,
not in prayers,
just in this:
I exist.
I feel.
I bleed.

The void pulls,
but it doesn’t own me yet…
I’m still here,
and the nothing
hasn’t won.