"Some hearts do not break with sound — they dissolve quietly, like tears that never learned to fall."

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Content Warning: This poem contains explicit descriptions of self-harm, suicidal ideation, and depression. Please prioritize your wellbeing.

If only I could shed tears.

I really believed I knew what love is — never realizing I had always been deprived of it.

I truly thought I understood it once, even tried to explain it in front of twenty-two people. Then I fell apart. Broken from the world, I lived in my nest for a long, long time.

Swallowing every shred of tears, afraid to be seen.

Laughed. Talked. Smiled. Laughed. Talked. Smiled. Laughed. Talked. Smiled. Laughed. Talked. Smiled. Laughed. Talked. Smiled. Laughed again. Talked again. Smiled again. And more — until a few tears slipped from my sore eyes.

The smile, plastered for too long, left faint traces on my cheeks — like forgotten scars. My voice trembled, breaking somewhere deep in my throat.

Then the day came — and I froze, the crowd pressing in around me.

So I dug a bigger hole this time. Deeper. Wider. I lived there — in the void.

There was no light to call out my wrongs, no shadows to claim my dead soul. Only bones and skin, lying still.

I lit a fire upon the scars around my wrist — not to find warmth. It was never warmth at all.

An agonizing flame, spreading across my skin, melting the tissue, layer by layer, turning my rib cages into sand and ash.

My heart screamed, yelled, and then — Silence.

And soon, I forgot what love is. I began to believe I never really understood it.

But how could I lie now, when the tears drown the letters?