how do you bleed?
you bleed in quiet seasons.
in unfinished books, in long texts to no one.
you bleed when a spring goes wrong
not with drama, but with the weight of what could’ve been better.
you hold your pain like a diary page;
creased, re-read, maybe forgiven.
you bleed through overthinking,
through days where your strength shows up dressed as silence.
you never let the world see you break,
but you do
just behind a softly closed door.
and still,
you get up.
and you write it down.
because even when you’re tired, you want to remember what being alive feels like.