If love is cruel, then let it die, if truth draws blood, then truth’s a lie. Must I pretend? Must I obey when all I love gets stripped away? All I’ll say is hearts have costs, and nothing gained is ever lost. We carry scars, we hide in shells, we guard ourselves where sorrow dwells. The chest pain hums beneath my ribs, a steady ache, a whispered whiff. I’ve grown so used to its steady song, it’s part of me, it’s where I belong. I put on masks, I play my part, but masks leave marks across the heart. And sometimes late when no one sees, I hear the truth that brings me to my knees: I am afraid. I am undone. I crave the warmth, yet hide from sun. I want to love yet push away, and still this ache hums every day. Then I find: a letter, worn, from little me, long ago, forlorn. Handwriting small, trembling, light, a spark that pierces the endless night. “Are we ok?” It asks so sweet. “Do we smile more? Do we feel complete?” then “Are we happy?” My chest contracts. “Don’t be sad!” - the words attack the hollow walls I built around the pain that hums, the muted sound. “I see you smiling!!!” - with three exclaims, as if to jolt my heart, to break the chains. “Please keep it that way!” - she pleads, she cries tiny bits of hope trapped in her curious eyes. I fold the letter, I press it near, and feel her pulse, I hear her cheer. She is small, yet she knows the truth: even in pain, we keep our youth. I whisper softly “I try, I do. I am still smiling sometimes - through the ache that hums, the scars that sting, the hollow notes that darkness brings.” The letter trembles in my hand, reminding me I still can stand. Some of us are children still, I have grown to quick. But little me is not yet gone; her questions linger, her hope lives on. And in her voice, I find the key: to breathe, to hold, to simply be. Wounds will heal, yet scars remain. The sun may shine, but fall brings rain. The chest pain hums, but I move through, and little me says, “I believe in you.” I smile - small, fragile, brave, and true, letter pressed close, the pan I knew. If love is cruel, then let it die, but still I live, and still I try.
