He can never know

He will never know. Never understand. Never be able to comprehend. He will never get it— what it’s like to be alone, truly alone, to feel the silence settle into your bones until it becomes the only voice that answers back. To wake up every day and fight battles you didn’t sign up for, to carry weights you never asked to hold, to keep breathing only because your child needs you— because tiny eyes believe you’re stronger than you feel. He will never understand how sometimes you want to disappear, to sink beneath burning water just to feel something, just to quiet the storm that never seems to break. He will never grasp the torture of breathing— how every inhale scratches against the inside of your chest, how every exhale is a reminder that you’re still here even when your spirit isn’t. He will never feel what it’s like when your body keeps going but your heart gave up months ago— that strange, hollow ache of walking around with a heartbeat that feels borrowed. He will never know the courage it takes to open your eyes each morning when all you want is for the darkness to swallow you whole. All I have are my dogs and my child— and though I love them more than breath itself, sometimes it feels li