She Was Already Gone. Poem by MIRAK Montiel

She Was Already Gone

She was a good girl—
once.
But somewhere between the blister of summer and the dying breath of autumn,
she vanished.
Not all at once.
Piece by piece.

Her eyes had wept oceans,
but even saltwater runs out.
A drought settled behind her gaze,
and what once burned with life
turned still.
Not healed—just buried.
Somewhere so deep even she couldn't reach it.

She made a silent trade:
innocence for numbness.
It didn't hurt anymore,
and that was the worst part.
The ache had hollowed her out so cleanly,
there was nothing left to break.

No light lived in her eyes now—
no sunrises, no dawn.
Only ash,
and the slow rot of sadness
feeding on the ruins of who she used to be.
Her dreams decayed like fruit in the dark,
her hope,
a corpse with no one to mourn it.

The seasons didn't just change her—
they devoured her.
Her hair, once touched by spring,
grayed into the color of winter's breath at dawn.
Every touch became meaningless.
Nothing stayed.
Everything passed through
like wind through a broken window.

Cigarettes.
Shards of sleep.
Bottles that never filled the void.
And this diary—
these scribbled last rites—
became her will,
her confession,
her tombstone.

A story never meant to be lived,
and yet—
here it bleeds.