Writers 
This year was cruel.
It bruised me in places no one saw.
The kind of bruises that don’t show up in photos.
The kind that live under your skin and ache when it rains.
I cried until crying felt like breathing.
It was the only thing I knew how to do right.
Wake up, cry. Eat, cry. Try to sleep, cry.
I was dropped, handled without care,
like I was something disposable, something people could pick up and put down
when it was convenient for them.
I watched my body fail me
while my heart begged to be held.
Doctors’ words, bad news, sleepless nights.
My body kept score of everything I tried to ignore.
And my heart just wanted someone to sit with me in it.
Not fix it. Not explain it. Just hold it.
The ones I trusted turned their backs.
The people I thought would stay through the fire
walked out when it got smoky.
They called it “needing space.”
They called it “I can’t deal with this right now.”
And I was left holding all of it alone.
I fell behind, fell apart,
and flirted with endings I never thought I'd consider.
I stood at the edge of myself and looked down.
I made plans to disappear quietly.
I told myself no one would notice.
That year taught me how lonely a crowded room can feel.
It taught me how heavy silence can get
when you’re the only one carrying it.