You say I'm not enough —
but you are only breath,
a shadow in my bloodstream,
a rumor dressed as death.
You tell me I'm a burden,
a weight no one would keep,
but you are just a parasite
that feeds when I can't sleep.
You say I'll end up empty,
unwanted and alone —
yet you are just an echo
that my hurting mind has grown.
You whisper I'm replaceable,
that no one's eyes would care —
but you have never met the ones
who'd break if I weren't there.
You call yourself the truth,
but you tremble in the light.
You only thrive in silence,
you only win at night.
You are a sickness, yes —
but sickness is not me.
You are a passing storm
I was never meant to be.
You can claw against my ribs,
you can rattle every bone —
but I am still the body
you are living in, not owning.
You are loud.
You are cruel.
You are practiced in your art.
But I am not your whisper.
I am the beating heart.
You say I'm not enough —
but you are only breath,
a shadow in my bloodstream,
a rumor dressed as death.
You tell me I'm a burden,
a weight no one would keep,
but you are just a parasite
that feeds when I can't sleep.
You say I'll end up empty,
unwanted and alone —
yet you are just an echo
that my hurting mind has grown.
You whisper I'm replaceable,
that no one's eyes would care —
but you have never met the ones
who'd break if I weren't there.
You call yourself the truth,
but you tremble in the light.
You only thrive in silence,
you only win at night.
You are a sickness, yes —
but sickness is not me.
You are a passing storm
I was never meant to be.
You can claw against my ribs,
you can rattle every bone —
but I am still the body
you are living in, not owning.
You are loud.
You are cruel.
You are practiced in your art.
But I am not your whisper.
I am the beating heart.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem