Out of Reach

I keep losing my footing
in places that used to feel like ground.

I pull apart the pieces holding me together,
but the chains don’t loosen—they only tighten around.

Every step feels borrowed,
like the floor might disappear if I stay too long.

I reach for air out of instinct,
but even breathing forgets where I belong.

The silence isn’t quiet—
it presses in, loud enough to bruise.

There’s no hidden meaning left to find,
just words I never signed, still waiting to be used.

The last bit of hope I had
hangs somewhere just out of reach—

close enough to see it flicker,
too far for anything in me to reach.

Can you hear me when I break like this,
or does it die before it leaves my chest?

So I stop asking for rescue,
stop waiting for something to reply—

and learn what it means to stand here,
unsteady… and still not die.