Love didn’t save it burned and left hollow, a shadow walking through a world of whispers that no one dares to hear.
Learned to bleed silently, to wear scars like armor, to dance on broken glass and call it freedom.
Some wounds do not seek cure; they demand witness, the raw, unflinching truth
that lives in the dark where light fears to tread.
And still, even hollow things move not because they are whole, but because they refuse to disappear completely.
There is a strange dignity in continuing after everything soft has been taken.
In learning how to exist without asking permission from what broke you.
The world keeps speaking in daylight language solutions, recovery, closure but some truths are not made for daylight.
Some truths only survive in the places where silence becomes a language of its own.
And you begin to understand: not every fracture is meant to close.
Not every ending is meant to resolve.
Some are meant to be carried.
Not as punishment.
Not as identity.
But as evidence that something real once passed through you.
And in time, even the hollow does not feel empty it feels inhabited.
By memory.
By endurance.
By the quiet proof that you did not vanish when you could have.
@newgirldark