Thin air

Writing the truth is costly.

It drags me back

to the nightmare I’ve rehearsed

a thousand times.

It always begins the same—

me, alone,

wrapped in a blanket of guilt,

fearful of discovering

the unimpressive pieces

hidden beneath the façade

that keeps me safe from myself.

I linger there,

choosing comfort over honesty,

forgetting that growth

never blooms in the soft soil of denial.

But the air grows thin

when you never breathe honesty.

Walls close in,

mirrors turn sharp,

and silence weighs heavier

than any confession could.

So I tear the curtain.

I call myself by my real name.

I admit:

growth requires

the risk of shattering.

It is terrifying—

but there is no oxygen in pretending.

No freedom in silence.

So I step into thin air,

heart trembling,

lungs burning,

and discover the truth—

though heavy—

is still the only thing

I can breathe.

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