Etched in Ache

Some days,

I wear my ghosts like skin.

Not draped, not hidden—stitched,

threaded through the quiet hours

between what I show and what I survive.

I’ve learned the hard mercy

of carrying what you cannot kill,

and the tenderness

of loving the parts of you

that no one clapped for.

There was a guy once

who told me my sadness made me handsome.

I wanted to believe him,

wanted to unwrap that lie

and wear it like a crown,

but grief is a loyal thing —

it does not leave when the audience does.

I have memorized

the geometry of leaving,

the exact weight of almost,

the way hope breaks clean

if you’re cruel enough

to swing twice.

And still, somehow,

I keep waking up

with a heart that forgets

its bruises by breakfast.

I guess that’s the trick of it —

bleed without bitterness,

ache without apology.

If nothing else,

let them carve that into stone,

or skin,

or the space between your ribs

where old loves palpitate.