Question

Hurt, Unlit...


Hurt is a room with no windows,
air thick with unsaid things.
You pace the floor,
counting breaths like debts you owe.
It speaks in echoes
every mistake replayed louder,
every kindness questioned,
every silence sharpened into blame.
You learn how to disappear
without leaving the room.
How to smile while something inside you
quietly rots.
Hurt teaches patience
not the gentle kind,
but the waiting that drains color from days
until everything feels the same shade of gray.
Sleep becomes a negotiation.
Morning, an accusation.
Your name sounds foreign
when spoken with concern.
And still
your heart keeps beating,
stubborn as a curse.
Refusing to stop,
even when you wish it would forget how.