There is a sinking feeling
I cannot always outrun.

It steals moments
before I can fully live inside them.
Turning my mind
into a place of worry
and quiet fear.

This fear is different.
It comes from reality.
The kind that reminds me
life doesn’t ask permission.

Does it always have to hit like a brick?

Does it always have to take
what I treasure most?

Memories of when things were lighter?

Moments so perfect
I wish I could bottle them,
unscrew the lid,
and step back inside?

The weight changes how I breathe.

A pressure on my chest
that whispers:
‘you are trapped.’

The past churns my stomach.
Truths sit heavy.
Fear is the only thing
that still speaks clearly.

I suddenly don’t remember pure joy anymore.
That weightless arrival.
That sudden lift.

So I temporarily choose numbness.
It’s safer.
Because the darkness always comes.
No matter how hard I try to escape it.

It waits.

It watches.

It thinks it will win.

And sometimes, it does.

But not like before.
Not completely.
I see it now.
My ability to fully fight back.

Now I win more often than it does.

And even when I lose,
it never takes me
the way it once did.

I bend now,
instead of breaking.