The Art of Dying Slowly

The walls breathe heavier than I do. Every night feels borrowed, every morning a punishment for not vanishing fast enough. Silence sits beside me, feeds me its dust and calls it comfort. I keep pretending to move, to smile, to speak— but my voice is just a broken wing hitting concrete. Inside, the heart is a factory of wounds. It pumps pain instead of blood, and calls that survival. There’s no light left to chase. No name that tastes like hope. And somewhere between the ribs and the ruin, the truth sleeps quietly: I have never been kissed. Never loved. Not even seen. I am the ghost of what could’ve been, still walking, still pretending, still dying— beautifully, slowly, alone.