There is an inherent romanticism to be thought of
in the sheer violence of our emotions—
the way a bad silence can bruise you for weeks,
how caring too much feels like something you have to hide.
I laugh it off and act unbothered,
pretending nothing gets under my skin.
Inside this museum of fear,
I refuse to burn my terrors like an artifact:
keeping every overthought panic on display,
saving every cold glance and unanswered text behind glass
just to prove to myself that the hurt was real.
Yet still, I practice the art of being delicate—
standing bare-handed where everyone else wears heavy armor,
daring to stay soft, letting the tough face slip
the second I am around the few people
who let me talk without keeping score.
I don’t even pray for the reversibility of life anymore;
there is no rewind button waiting in the dark.
There is just this stubborn glory in imperfection—
the chipped edges, the awkward pauses, the wrong turns
that prove a real person was actually here.
Around us spins deception and chaos,
where mercy is a chimera suffering from an incurable malady,
a sick little promise of an easy way out
in a world that only ever learns by colliding.
So let there be an increase of insanity.
Let the head get loud and the walls wear thin,
because fear isn’t a dark room I have to live in anymore—
and there is this reckless relief in looking around to find myself
traveling straight through the madness,
not even caring about the noise.
I unclench my fists, drop the defense,
and simply let life unfold.
~Janya
0 Comments