By Khushi Gupta
I've been called strong.
I've been called brave.
I've been called courageous.
But lately, these words feel fleeting—
a mask, a mirage,
a borrowed strength that never belonged to me.
Because am I truly strong?
If I walk willingly into the fire?
Am I truly strong?
if I surrender to the sins,
that taste like heaven
but burn like hell?
It hurts. Everything. Hurts.
I bask in his embrace, in his arms, in his warmth.
I shouldn't feel it but one can't cage it.
He understands the language of my soul,
the silent syllables I don't remember speaking,
The world would never understand us,
But realization echoes between us.
We've fought our storms alone,
but now, we stand together.
And yet—how?
How do we fight this war?
when the battle lines carve wounds,
too deep to heal?
It scrapes my heart.
Leaves my mind hazy,
He aches.
I break,
He says "Don't cry, baby."
I cry harder.
Foolishly.
Painfully.
Loudly.
Meekly.
God, I'm hurting.
Someone stop this pain,
Before it replaces my blood,
And becomes the only thing
Keeping me alive.