Writers Jam

I do not live; I endure.
A moth pinned in glass,
still beating its wings though the air has long turned stale.

Horrors persist, so do I.
They come at night,
Digging their teeth into my quiet,
whispering things that I cannot unhear.

I rise not from will,
but from routine—
the way a clock goes
long after the house has burned,
measuring nothing,
marking nothing,
yet refusing to stop.

Horrors persist, so do I.
I am not a hero or a wreck, only the thin thread standing between collapse and continuation.
Some mornings I mistake breath for win,
other nights I mistake survival for loss.

There is no glory here.
Only the slow ache of existing When black holes swallow their own light,
and history circles back forever
like a planet too tired to fall…

Still—
I am the scar that doesn't fade,
the echo that doesn't die down.
Not special, not hopeful, just present.
Just here.

Horrors persist, so do I.
Endurance is a chain,
clanging in empty halls,
a burden I cannot drop,
that holds me where I'm always stuck.

So when tomorrow asks if I survived,
I will answer as I always do:
not with buoyant,
not with defeat,
but with breath.
And it is enough.