I don’t pretend anymore.
The lie is worn out,
like the soles of my shoes
tracing the same cracked sidewalk
to the same corner store.

My hands don’t shake
until they’re empty.
Then they become strangers
grasping at ghosts
in brown paper bags.

I tell myself
it’s just one more.
One more to shut out the noise,
to soften the mirror,
to dull the ache
of waking up
still me.

Some people consume for hunger.
I do, too—
but mine’s in the bones,
in the blood,
in the black corners of memory
I’d rather drown
than remember.

This isn’t a poem, really.
It’s a whispered apology
to no one.
To everyone.
To the empty shelf I left behind.
To myself,
before I needed saving.