I watch the world tip over,
a line of dominoes I didn’t set,
but I can’t stop the tumble—
each one is a piece of me I’ve yet to name.

The cracks in my hands
tell stories I’ve forgotten how to tell,
and the weight in my chest
feels heavier than the air I’m supposed to breathe.

I tried to stand,
but the ground kept shifting,
and every time I reached for the light,
the shadows grew longer,
mocking the shape of my hope.

Who am I, if not a passenger
in a body I don’t recognize?
Who am I, if not a witness
to my undoing?

But even as I break,
I hear the echoes of something deeper—
a rhythm, a pulse,
a reminder that even the fallen
can rise again.

Maybe the pieces are not lost,
only waiting
to be found in a new order,
a new shape
I haven’t yet dared to imagine.