PHAngelGadiel
Eternal Poster
I rise before sunrise as if it might have some clues.
But the sky is only a gray canvas,
smudged with yesterday's fingerprints.
No light, no heat—only raw pain
of another morning I did not request.
My bedroom is haunted by spirits that resemble options.
Photos turned face-down, drawers that don’t open.
I walk like the floorboards know where I'm headed.
They creak the same direction every time:
nowhere.
I eat but I never enjoy.
Speak but never say.
I laugh like a person recalling how.
There used to be a road.
I don't know when I left it—
maybe it was not a road.
Maybe it was a loop.
A cruel echo.
I carry moments in my chest like stones,
and I forget how it once was to walk without being weighed down.
Names I miss
words that I shouldn't have used
the quiet I provided when I should have yelled—
they build higher every year,
an invisible architecture of everything I didn't do.
They remind us, "It gets better."
But they don't see how I dig—
not to build, not to plant—
but simply to make something happen, anything.
I am not seeking meaning.
I am not hoping for light. I am merely attempting to make the silence more profound so that I can hide in it. Since life is a grave, and I dig it.
But the sky is only a gray canvas,
smudged with yesterday's fingerprints.
No light, no heat—only raw pain
of another morning I did not request.
My bedroom is haunted by spirits that resemble options.
Photos turned face-down, drawers that don’t open.
I walk like the floorboards know where I'm headed.
They creak the same direction every time:
nowhere.
I eat but I never enjoy.
Speak but never say.
I laugh like a person recalling how.
There used to be a road.
I don't know when I left it—
maybe it was not a road.
Maybe it was a loop.
A cruel echo.
I carry moments in my chest like stones,
and I forget how it once was to walk without being weighed down.
Names I miss
words that I shouldn't have used
the quiet I provided when I should have yelled—
they build higher every year,
an invisible architecture of everything I didn't do.
They remind us, "It gets better."
But they don't see how I dig—
not to build, not to plant—
but simply to make something happen, anything.
I am not seeking meaning.
I am not hoping for light. I am merely attempting to make the silence more profound so that I can hide in it. Since life is a grave, and I dig it.
