Intrusively Written

  An Irish Goodbye I’ve no wish for death. But I don’t crave life either. At least not like this. Not when it feels so hollow. Love is the fuel behind every brick I lay. Love not for myself, but for them. My mother, who’s carried storms in her chest and shoulders. My brother, who sees more in me than I ever could—and always smiles when I do. And for her— the only one who looks at me like I’m whole, even when I’m clearly breaking. They are the ropes I cling to with my worn out knuckles. Not to climb— just to hold on. I do as I do to distract. I withdraw from life just to dull the silence that screams. But I still smile so no one asks. If I disappeared quietly, the world would go on. The sky would not darken and the clocks would not pause. But they would cry. And my dear mother would meet me sooner than she'd have to. I'd kill her of heartbreak. So I stay. Not because I believe in better. Not because I think healing waits around some corner. But because—ev...

  “Why I Stay” I wake in a body that keeps on breathing not out of desire, but out of duty. Not because I long for the morning, but because someone, somewhere, still smiles when I do. I have built a life out of giving, paved roads in silence, sacrificed joy like spare change— and called it love. It is love. But it’s also forgetting. Forgetting how to ask myself if I’m allowed to feel light. I’d trade my happiness for hers, his, theirs— every time. And I do. And I will . And still— a piece of me aches quietly each time I disappear. But if I didn’t give it up, I’d feel worse. A conundrum carved into bone: to feel wrong when I’m full, to feel empty when I’m right. There are days I wonder what I’m still doing here. Not out of drama— but exhaustion. The kind of tired that lives behind the eyes. I’ve imagined the end more than I care to count. Not with intent, but with curiosity. What if? Would I rest? Would it finally go quiet? But I stay. I ...