Nothing is OK.
Not the way the light falls through the window like it used to mean something.
Not the coffee that tastes like waiting.
Not the conversations that pass like tired ghosts.
Not the sleep that forgets to arrive.
Not the waking that comes too early and too loud.
There is a dullness to everything now,
as if the world has been wrapped in wet wool,
and the sky no longer remembers its color.
Smiles come with effort.
Laughter feels like a stranger trying too hard.
I answer “I’m fine” like a prayer I no longer believe.
The air is too thick,
and yet I cannot breathe deeply enough.
My hands shake at stillness,
but they do nothing.
My heart beats to a rhythm of absence,
and my thoughts are knots that only tighten.
People say things like
“it will pass,”
or
“you’re strong,”
and their words fall like pennies into an empty well.
There is no echo.
No answer.
Only the slow turning of the world,
dragging me behind it.
Food tastes like memory.
Music sounds like distance.
Love feels like a language I’ve forgotten.
Hope sits outside my door but never knocks.
I want to scream without making a sound.
I want someone to see through the mask
and say,
“You don’t have to pretend.”
But I nod,
and I smile,
and I lie because it’s easier for everyone that way.
Because nothing is OK,
and I’m afraid that if I say it out loud,
it will become too real
and I will disappear into it.
So I carry the weight
and say nothing
because that, too, is easier than explaining
what it means to be empty.
Broken Author 