Unraveled

The air is thick with sweat and strain, bodies sculpted, carved in pain. I watch them push, I watch them pull, the weight, the will, the mind control. My ribs recall the hollow days, the hunger hymns, the razor haze. Each echo calls me back to then— a hollow boy, a ghost of skin. I reach for Ash, but he’s not near, his voice, his touch, the one I hear— but silence hums where warmth should be, and I am left alone with me. A stranger’s ear, an open door, I spill what I have swallowed sore. They listen soft, they do not pry, but shame still crawls beneath my spine. I’m trembling now, I’m burning cold, I swore I wouldn’t lose control. But hunger is a cunning fiend, it calls me back, it sings, it screams. I bite my tongue, I clench my hands, I count the breaths, I make my stand. I swore to Ash, I swore to me— I won’t go back. I have to be.