Held Too Tightly, Dropped Too Carelessly

I don’t remember when the cracks began.

When the noise bled through,

when the world pressed its stained fingers

against the inside of my skull

and left them there, twitching.

I touch my face—

flesh, still mine,

but the edges flicker,

fragments peeling,

paint dripping from a portrait

I never agreed to pose for.

They say I am beautiful.

They say I am untouchable.

But they don’t see the fractures,

don’t hear the static in my bones,

don’t know how my thoughts split open

like broken glass,

shimmering, cutting,

until nothing stays whole.

I used to be softer,

I think.

But softness rots in the hands of others,

and I have been held too tightly,

dropped too carelessly,

scattered like dust in an artist’s regret.

Now, I let the chaos curl through me,

let the colors explode in my hair,

let the ruin paint itself across my skin—

because if I can’t stop the breaking,

I will become the storm instead.